


Ineffable Incantations: a Potter Omens Fic

by athousandelegies



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy; Hermione Granger; Percy Weasley, Gen, Minor appearances from:, Pollution; War, Professors McGonagall and Trelawney, Ron Weasley; Harry Potter, harry potter au for good omens, potter omens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 60,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandelegies/pseuds/athousandelegies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s fifth year at Hogwarts is an eventful one, complete with dementors patrolling the grounds, the strains of studying for O.W.L.s, the pangs of secret infatuation, and troubling predictions of impending misfortune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in what in Rowling’s series is Harry’s third year; thus many of the events of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban are alluded to. Crowley and Aziraphale are in their fifth year. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, all illustrations included with the chapters are drawn by my super fabulous girlfriend, so I hope you like them!

As the Hogwarts Express pulled out from Platform 9 and ¾ with a hiss of steam and an earsplitting blast from its whistle, Crowley slouched sullenly in his seat across from Aziraphale. He was glaring out the window through dark-tinted sunglasses, inwardly seething at his own idiocy.

Aziraphale seemed oblivious to the Gryffindor’s bad mood. He hadn’t stopped talking since they’d been reunited in the station, and if Crowley weren’t too busy brooding, he’d have been wondering whether his friend were even pausing between words for air.

“Now, fifth year is when things get serious,” Aziraphale was saying at that moment. “I’ve drawn up study schedules for us both so that we can get to work on OWL preparations right away…”

Crowley wasn’t listening. His mind was fuming at him, over and over: “ _You fool. Of all the idiotic notions…you stupid, ridiculous, fool.”_

He’d been eager to see Aziraphale again, of course—after all, a whole summer is a long time to go without seeing your best friend. He’d arrived at King’s Cross with his trunk and his owl and looked around for the short little Ravenclaw with the unruly curls—and found himself gazing not down but straight into Aziraphale’s sparkling eyes. The bastard seemed to have had his growth spurt at last over break; he was now almost exactly the same height as Crowley.

Excitable as ever, Az had swept his friend into a hug, and Crowley was suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact: of Aziraphale’s robes tangling with his own, of Aziraphale’s hands against his shoulder blades and Aziraphale’s hair tickling his ear.

The Ravenclaw had pulled back and beamed at Crowley, whose reeling mind fell back on his customary nonchalance.

“Wow, you’ve gotten tall, Az. You get zapped by an engorgement charm or something?”

As the train huffed out of King’s Cross and London fell away, the view from the window opened onto a serene, unsullied stretch of English countryside. Lulled by the rhythmic cadence of the wheels clattering away along the tracks below, Crowley felt the shock of his realization gradually subside.

Fancy his best friend? Fancy _Aziraphale_? No. It was absurd. It would pass—he’d make sure it did.

He allowed himself to relax, loosening muscles he hadn’t even realized he’d tensed and straightening up a little in his seat to flash Aziraphale a devilish grin.

“Honestly, Az, it’s not even the first day of classes yet—do you really need to worry about studying already? If you jabber on any longer about school, I’ll hex you and you can spend the rest of the trip stuffed in the luggage rack.”

They spent the next few hours swapping stories about their respective summers. As they conversed, the world outside the train grew shadowy and then black as the clouds grew thicker and stormier above the rolling fields of Northern England and then of Scotland. Rain lashed out against the windows, but inside the car was cozy and bathed in the warm golden glow of the lamps.

Aziraphale had gone on holiday in France with his family, and Crowley got a kick out of hearing the various proceedings of muggle life (“But how does something that big stay up in the air without magic? And with a whole load of people in it too! Nah, it’s gotta be magic.” “Packing by hand, cleaning by hand, no spells to keep the sand out of your hair or the water out of your eyes on the beach—you sure this was a holiday? Sounds more like torture to me.”)

Crowley had spent the summer at his less-than-sane grandfather’s manor in Northern England. He spent almost all of his breaks there—his father was, well, who knew where, and his mum was an auror and therefore rarely home to take care of him.

He managed to send Aziraphale into hysterics with his recounting of the night his grandfather coerced him into venturing out under a full moon to hunt for “seleniradesecens toadstools” in the bogs. Before finding a single one of the glowing mushrooms—which Crowley was almost certain didn’t actually exist in the first place—they’d been assailed by a swarm of doxies. (“He’s absolutely barmy, I tell you. And I kept finding more doxy bites in awkward places for at least a week afterward.”)

His animated retelling of the evening his granddad had accidently mixed a babbling beverage into their supper’s stew was interrupted by the compartment door sliding open.

In glided a graceful girl with sharp features; she had a glint in her eyes that suggested she knew far more about everything and everyone than was entirely decent. An exquisite jade pin* swept her glossy black hair back from her face and complimented the green of the Slytherin insignia on her robes. Following her came a tall, gangly boy with too-long limbs and features even darker than his companion’s. He stumbled on the threshold, almost careening into the girl but catching himself just in time.

“Anathema, Newton, nice to see you!” said Crowley, grinning at the newcomers.

“Crowley. Aziraphale,” the Slytherin said in way of greeting, bobbing her sharp chin in the direction of each as she said their names. “Mind if we join you?”

“Not at all,” said Aziraphale warmly. He gestured to the badges clearly visible on both their chests. “I see you were both made prefects. Congratulations!”

“I’m a bit surprised you weren’t, Aziraphale,” said Newton, clumsily folding his limbs into the seat next to the Ravenclaw. “I can understand why they didn’t pick you, Crowley—no offence—but Aziraphale has always been good about following the rules and all.”

Anathema snorted as she slid fluidly into the seat beside Crowley. “They know better than to make someone like Aziraphale a prefect,” she explained matter-of-factly. “He always has his head in the clouds, or his nose in a book. He could walk past students having an all-out duel and not even notice the jinxes whizzing over his head, let alone have the inclination to put a stop to it.”

She paused, and her eyes flashed Aziraphale a meaningful look that sent a strange chill down his spine. “Plus,” she added, a mysterious and utterly unnerving smile playing along her lips, “our respectable little Ravenclaw is going to be getting up to quite a lot of mischief this year.”

An uncomfortable silence settled briefly over the compartment. Crowley glanced at Newt, who gave him an apologetic look, as if to say, _You know I don’t have any more idea where she gets this stuff than you do_.

Aziraphale was the one who broke it, looking miffed. “Well, I can’t imagine what sort of ‘mischief’ you expect me to be planning on, Anathema,” he huffed. “It’s our fifth year, and in case you lot have forgotten we have our O.W.L.s, _a test that will decide our entire futures_ , in spring. So I don’t know about you, but I for one will be much too busy studying to make any trouble.”

Crowley could scarcely keep from sniggering at the excessively severe expression on his friend’s face. Aziraphale finished his statement with a toss of his head that caused his curls to bounce vigorously and Crowley lost it.

“And what do _you_ think is so funny?” Aziraphale snapped, thoroughly peeved now. He fixed the Gryffindor with a glowering look that reminded Crowley just how dangerous his harmless-looking friend could be; he sobered up immediately.

“Nothing at all, Az,” he said smoothly, the very picture of sincerity. “I’m just so very _happy_ to be among friends again, aren’t we having a jolly time?”

Anathema threw a cushion at him. He seized it and whacked her over the head with it, cackling absurdly. Half-laughing, half-shrieking, she dove for another cushion to retaliate.

Newt quickly joined the fray, followed by Aziraphale, and soon enough the compartment was ringing with shrieks and thumps and peals of riotous laughter. Anyone passing by in the corridor outside would have thought it was full of immature first years, not four fifth years—and two of them prefects, no less.

Their roughhousing was interrupted abruptly.

As Crowley and Newton wrestled for control of a cushion and Aziraphale deflected Anathema’s assault with a ludicrously hefty book, the lights suddenly flickered off, leaving them submerged in darkness.

“Mmmf. Ger-off me,” came a muffled voice from underneath Newton.

“Sorry, Crowley,” the gangly Hufflepuff said, awkwardly disentangling his long limbs from where he’d toppled over onto the disgruntled Gryffindor. “Why’d the lights go out?”

Everyone turned to Anathema. By this point it was second nature to all of them to consult her whenever something peculiar had happened; the prescient Slytherin often greeted such uncanny events with a disconcerting grin and a smug, “Saw that one coming a mile off.”

This time, however, the silhouette that was Anathema in the dense blanket of darkness merely shrugged. “I…don’t know,” she said, sounding as surprised as they were to find herself without an answer.

“The train’s stopped,” Aziraphale stated calmly, and suddenly they all noticed what they hadn’t before—during their tussle, the rhythmic movement beneath their feet had slowed and shuddered to a halt. No longer could they hear the heaving of the pistons and the rattling of the wheels. There was a deathly hush over everything, a silence so heavy it was nearly palpable, broken only by the moaning of the wind and the rain beating relentlessly against the panes.

Aziraphale’s tone had been one of composure, but Crowley knew his friend too well to fail to notice the tiny tremor in the Ravenclaw’s voice. He felt his way past Newt to stand beside Aziraphale in the gloom, wordlessly passing a steadying arm over his shoulder.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said, trying to reassure himself as well as the others. “They’ll have things up and running again soon enough.”

And then the temperature plummeted.

Crowley hated the cold. He found even mildly chilly days almost unbearable, bundling up into as many layers as he could get his hands on as soon as the first hint of frost crept over the Hogwarts grounds in late autumn. Once, when he’d been mountain climbing in northern Europe, he’d gotten terrible frostbite and nearly lost some fingers. That expedition had been the coldest he’d ever felt—but _this_ was a completely different species of cold.

It was a cold so complete it seemed to penetrate far deeper than the skin, deeper even than the marrow of their bones. It sucked every last vestige of heat from their very chests, burrowing into their hearts like a worm of ice, gnawing out all traces of warmth and leaving an empty frozenness in its wake. Instinctively, Crowley’s arm around Aziraphale tightened. He heard the Ravenclaw whimper.

Through the window of the compartment door, they could see spectral figures drifting through the corridor. Taller than any man, draped in ragged hoods and cloaks even blacker than the shadows all around them, even through the glass they emitted an aura for which Crowley’s suddenly frozen brain could only find one word: _Horror_.

Thoughts were entering his head and congealing there, suspended ruthlessly in the icy tundra of his mind—memories that he’d never dared to dwell upon. He felt sick, and numb, and horribly, horribly miserable; the only thing keeping him on his feet was Aziraphale. They clung to each other, and Newt and Anathema in the darkness did the same. The four of them watched, immobile, as one of the horrifying beings paused outside their compartment.

As in a nightmare, Crowley willed his body to move, to lock the bloody door, to do _anything_ , but his limbs, drenched with that potent, probing cold, refused to budge. An ashen hand protruded from beneath the ink-black robe, scabbed and bloated like that of a waterlogged corpse, and raised itself to slide the door open. The four of them looked on helplessly, eyes wide and awful memories drowning out all other thought.

And then, from the midst of the overwhelming darkness, a light, blissfully bright, silver as the moon, burst into being. It charged down the corridor, slicing through the shadows like a sword through wood. The phantom figures fled at its approach, sliding away like so much smoke wafted into oblivion by a purifying gust of wind.

The silver light melted away as soon as the last spectral form had fled from the train. Gradually, the lanterns above the luggage racks flickered back into life, chasing away all remnants of shadow.

The four companions released each other and, one by one, sank into their seats. They could hear the sound of other students moving about in the other cars, laughing shakily or murmuring comfort to each other, picking up fallen trunks and moving to other compartments to check on friends. Soon enough, the sound of the train coming back to life filled the compartment, and the floor shook once more with the steady cadence of the wheels clattering along the track, as the Hogwarts Express hurtled through the rain towards its destination once again.

“W-what _were_ those things?” Newt finally asked, his voice weak and cracking on the last syllable.

“Dementors,” Aziraphale said woodenly. Crowley didn’t like the haunted look in his friend’s eyes. He considered putting his arm back around the Ravenclaw, the way Newt still had his around Anathema’s, but now that the immediate terror had passed he found he was too embarrassed to do so. “They feed off happiness,” Aziraphale continued, and as he spoke Crowley was relieved to see a bit of life return to his gaze, “ leaving you with nothing but despair. I—I have no idea how they ended up on the Hogwarts Express, though. They’re supposed to guard Azkaban…perhaps it has to do with Black’s escape?”

Anathema shifted, shrugging off Newton’s arm as she stood.

“We’re prefects now, we ought to be checking on everyone, making sure they’re all right,” she said.

“Oh, um, right,” Newt said. He stood too. “We’ll be back soon enough,” he said to Aziraphale and Crowley, and trailed behind the Slytherin as she strode purposefully out into the corridor.

Crowley and Aziraphale were left in awkward silence.

“Er…they were here about Black’s escape, you said?” Crowley said, just to break the silence. “Yeah, could be. And I wonder what that silver light thing was that scared them off...”

He glanced over at Aziraphale beside him and saw that the Ravenclaw was staring at him appraisingly, eyes keen and earnest through his thick spectacles. Crowley felt the back of his neck grow hot, and shifted in his seat. “…What?”

“Crowley, are you…you know, all right?” Aziraphale appeared suddenly embarrassed, but didn’t look away. “I just mean, that, well…the dementors force you to relive your worst memories, and I know you’ve got some pretty, er, pretty bad ones—”

“I’m fine,” Crowley snapped, harsher than he’d intended. “I’m fine, Az,” he repeated, more gently. “It’s over now, those bloody joy-suckers are gone, so what’s the use in thinking about it anymore, right?”

Damn, he hated that look Aziraphale had, the one so overflowing with compassion and understanding that he didn’t know how the Ravenclaw didn’t explode with it. It was enough to make him puke.

“And you’re okay too, right, Azi?” he returned, a bit haltingly.

“Yes. You’re right, of course, it’s over now.” To his relief, Aziraphale finally blinked and looked away to peer towards the corridor. “Hopefully Newton and Anathema can help calm down any younger students who need it, and we can all put this behind us.”

“Terrible creatures though, yeah? What the hell’s the Ministry thinking, letting them get away from Azkaban?”

They continued to converse in broken sentences, discussing Black, the murderous fugitive, and attempting to describe the feeling the dementors had instilled in them. They spoke less because they had something to say than because they feared the newly-unearthed memories that would float insidiously back into their thoughts if they were left in silence.

Anathema and Newt slipped back into the car soon enough, and they brought more information with them.

“The silver beam that made all the dementors go away? That was a patronus,” Anathema said in lieu of greeting. “We popped our head into one car, and Harry Potter was passed out on the seat—”  
  
“I thought he was dead for a second,” Newton interrupted, “he was that pale—”

“Yeah, well, you must be blind because he was shaking like a leaf,” Anathema scoffed. “Plus I definitely would’ve been alerted if something as big as the ‘boy who lived’ dying was about to occur.”

“Are you _ever_ going to tell us where you even get your information?” Crowley asked, but only out of habit.**

True to form, the Slytherin ignored his question, continuing as if she hadn’t heard: “I feel bad for the poor kid, the whole school’s going to be gossiping about his fit or whatever it was for the next week at least. But _anyway_ , there was a teacher, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I’d guess, in there with them; he’d cast the patronus, so there’s that mystery cleared up. He had that coach under control, so we moved on to the next one—oh, but he gave us this to give to everyone, I saved a bit for you two…” She drew a tinfoil wrapper from her robes and unwrapped the last of what must have been a very large, very dense bar of chocolate. She broke it in half—it made a pleasantly crisp snapping sound—and handed a piece each to Crowley and Aziraphale.

“Just eat it, it really does help,” Newt prompted, observing Crowley’s questioning look.

Shrugging, Crowley placed the sliver of chocolate in his mouth—and felt the lingering chill, a residue of gloom that not even the relit lamps had been able to dispel, melt away. It was as if he’d forgotten that a numbing shard of ice wedged was in his heart, and it had been suddenly removed, allowing warmth to flow through his bloodstream into his limbs at last. It felt so good that he actually smiled, relaxing as the melancholy drained from his skin and also—he could have sworn—from his soul.

“Thank you, Anathema,” Aziraphale said gratefully from beside him. “That feels much better.”

By the time the Hogwarts Express had huffed into Hogsmeade Station, they had all more or less recovered. The incident had receded into memory, an ordeal that had occurred but was past now, and their limbs had lost their shakiness as they stood up to gather their trunks and pets and shuffle down the corridor and out into the chill of the rainy night.

They clambered into a stagecoach*** and settled in. Rainwater dripped from their robes onto the seats as they let themselves be driven down the long, muddy track towards the turrets and towers of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

 

_Footnotes:_

*The pin was more than just a pretty adornment—being descended from a line of sensible witches, Anathema knew better than to place the entirety of her faith in protective amulets and spells; keeping a knife on one’s person never went amiss, in her experience.

**Anathema had been making her uncanny predictions since their first year and everyone was still clueless about how she made them—it wasn’t tea leaves, or crystal balls, or tarot cards, or any of the standard divination methods, as far as they knew; though she was quite proficient in those as well.

***Crowley shuddered only a little bit at the skeletally gaunt equine creatures with the veiny gossamer wings and ghostly white eyes pulling them; he’d grown used to them by that point and had given up trying to convince Aziraphale they were really there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, an update, it's a miracle! Sorry for the delay, but, well, I did warn you. And I suppose you'd expect such a long wait to culminate in a simply spectacular chapter, right? Um…not quite. But I hope you enjoy it! More characters are introduced, which is always fun, if a little overwhelming.
> 
> Dumbledore's lines are taken straight from Rowling's _The Prisoner of Azkaban_. Oh, and if you have questions about my Housing choices, feel free to ask! I do intend on making a tumblr post about it, eventually.
> 
> I believe that's it, so yes, thanks for reading!

"Oy, Crowley! Come sit with us, mate!"

Crowley gratefully made his way to the bench that the Weasley twins were occupying at the long, dish-laden, scarlet-decked table.

He didn't have many friends among Gryffindor House. The suspicious whispers that had trailed him throughout his initial few months at Hogwarts had eventually yielded to a rather grudging acceptance, at least, but never approached anything even bordering on camaraderie. Fred and George, however, had never seemed to care two Knuts about his background—they'd always treated him with esteem and even, to his infinite surprise, seemed to like him. They'd gotten along since their first year, when he'd come up with an alibi for them in Herbology.

The normally genial Professor Sprout had been ready to explode when it was discovered that someone had been meddling with her flutterby bushes, tying little bells to their branches that jingled out curse-words at passersby, and damaging them rather badly in the process. And even though they'd only been at the school for a few months, Fred and George were well on their way to establishing a reputation for mayhem—it was logical enough that she had rounded on them.

"They couldn't have done it, Professor! Er…they were with me in the library all afternoon!" he'd butted in, startling both the guilty-looking twins and the frazzled herbology teacher. "—Not studying, of course," he'd hastily amended at her disbelieving look; "they were…charming books to hurl themselves at Madame Pince as she passed." He couldn't have said what had possessed him to stick his nose into other people's business; nevertheless, he plowed obstinately on. "Okay, so not exactly innocent behavior, I'll admit, but, you know…far away from your greenhouses, and all."

Sprout hadn't seemed completely convinced, but she'd already developed something of a soft spot for the dark-haired first year with the penchant for plants, and so she'd let it go.

Fred and George, who of course _had_ been the ones messing with the plants, had thanked him profusely and added, "Charming books to fly at Pince, that's not a bad idea, might have to try that some time." They'd even been good-natured about Crowley's request that they keep their pranks out of the greenhouses from then on.

Ever since, he often assisted them in various minor acts of chaos*. He considered himself an admirer of all jibes at authority—so long as they were mostly harmless—and the Weasley twins were the unrivaled kings of all things mischievous.

"Some show on the Express, eh?" Crowley said as he squeezed in beside Fred on the bench. "With the dementors and all, I mean."

"Yeah," George said darkly, "what's the Ministry playing at, letting those things loose on a train full of kids?"

"Talk about killjoys," Fred said. "Glad they didn't do too much harm, the rot-breathed buggers."

There was a pause. Crowley suddenly didn't want to talk about the dementors anymore, and got the distinct feeling the twins didn't either. Bit of a mood-killer, really, to bring creatures that could suck the very happiness out of you into a conversation.

"So, anyway, how was your summer?" Crowley asked.

"Pretty good, we went on holiday in Egypt, visiting our brother Bill," George said. "He works for Gringotts—"

"—Breaking into pyramids, dodging curses and hauling out treasures for the goblins—it's a noble occupation," Fred broke in.

"Better than what Percy aspires to, anyway," George agreed.

"What's that?" Crowley asked curiously. He glanced down the long table to where Percy, whose hair was as vividly red as his brothers' but whose default expression behind his horn-rimmed spectacles seemed to be one of hassled disdain, was sitting. He kept rubbing at the brand-new Head Boy badge gleaming on his robes, as if he could make it shine even brighter**.

" _He_ wants to work in the Ministry," Fred replied. "Like Dad, but, you know, not like Dad at all."

"Wouldn't be surprised if he dreams of being Minister one day," George added.

"Can you imagine that? We'd campaign for him, of course, since we're such supportive brothers and all."

"I can see it now," George said, an exaggerated dreaminess settling over his features. "Vote for Percy 'Bighead' Weasley—he'll bring the Ministry to a whole new level of priggishness."

Crowley stifled his snicker as a hush suddenly fell over the Hall. The heavy doors had swung smoothly open to allow Professor Flitwick to waddle in, followed by a bedraggled, sopping-wet gaggle of first years. They shuffled after him past the four tables of curious older students to come to a rest in front of the head table, from which the Hogwarts staff looked on. There they stood close together, looking small and lost, like a flock of lambs that had somehow wandered into the rams' pen. The only sound throughout the hall was the steady dripping of their sodden robes onto the stone floor—it was a rather inclement night for a row across the lake.

"I wonder where McGonagall is," Crowley muttered to Fred, and the murmur rippling through the Hall showed that other students were wondering the same thing.

His merry eyes gleaming in the candle light, Flitwick stood beside a three-legged stole that was almost as tall as he was and on which sat an unremarkable, battered old wizard's hat. He stepped back, and the hat, a seam near its brim raising like a mouth, burst into its annual song. It sang of the four Founders—industrious Helga, cunning Salazar, audacious Godric, and erudite Rowena—and its own role in sorting students into their respective Houses. Then it went quiet, and Flitwick stepped back up to stand beside it, a scroll in his hands.

"When I call your name, please step forward," he chirruped in his squeaky, bubbling voice, "and place this hat upon your head." Unrolling the scroll, he called out a name, and a tiny, dark-haired girl staggered hesitantly forward. "Come, now, dear, don't be shy, up you get."

Crowley only half paid attention as each first year was called forward to try on the hat. Among them were: a pensive-looking, bespectacled boy with light brown, wavy hair whom Crowley had pinned as a Ravenclaw at a glance but whom the Hat proclaimed after a half a minute's deliberation to be a Hufflepuff; a girl covered in freckles with flaming hair ("She a cousin of yours?" Crowley murmured to Fred. "Not that I know of," came the reply) who was declared a Gryffindor; and a rather plump boy with a nervous yet cheerful expression and somewhat grubby robes who was placed into Hufflepuff almost before the hat had skimmed the top of his head.

At last there remained but one student to be sorted.

"Young, Adam," Flitwick's voice called, and Crowley was brought fully to attention by the sudden buzz that rolled through the Hall. At all four tables, students were nudging one another and craning their heads for a better look at the short figure with the disheveled golden hair stepping up to the sorting hat.

Young. Where had Crowley heard that name recently? Ah, yes. _The Daily Prophet_. Tucked in among all the headlines about the hunt for Black, there'd been a sizable article a few months ago about a magical disturbance at a muggle zoo caused by a ten year old who hadn't even known he was a wizard.

There'd been chaos in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as they tried to find ways to explain away such phenomena as an exhibit of monkeys whose fur had suddenly gone all colors of the rainbow, a shower of rainforest tree frogs, and five floating elephants to countless muggle witnesses.

Such power exhibited by a wandless youth who hadn't so much as known that magic existed was certainly remarkable, especially as his tricks seemed more focused than those of most underage wizards and witches. Apart from recounting the damage done and the reactions of muggle onlookers, the _Prophet_ articles had included speculation about the great things to come from Adam Young.

Crowley felt a twinge of sympathy for the kid. He knew what it was like to enter Hogwarts with a reputation—good or bad—already established.

The hat fell over the boy's overlarge ears, and took nearly a full minute before it shouted decisively, "Gryffindor!"

Adam tumbled off the stool and approached the scarlet-covered table of his new House. He tried his best to look unconcerned as he scanned the line of applauding Gryffindors for an available seat, but Crowley noticed the desperation behind the nonchalance.

Crowley caught the first year's eye from behind his sunglasses and jerked his chin toward the space he'd made on the bench beside him. Gratefully, Adam took the proffered spot, and as he sat his shoulders relaxed, as if relieved to be out of the spotlight at last.

As Adam was sitting down and Flitwick was carrying the hat on its stool from the Hall, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger slipped in. Crowley watched them settle down next to their fellow third year, Ron Weasley, a little ways down the table.

"Wonder where they were," he remarked to the twins beside him, but just then Headmaster Dumbledore rose to make his usual start of year feast announcements.

"Welcome!" he proclaimed, beaming around at the students. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast." Dumbledore cleared his throat. "As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the Dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business." He paused, and Crowley got the distinct feeling that behind his silvery beard and half-moon spectacles Dumbledore was no happier than any of them about this information. "They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while they are with us I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises…" Dumbledore continued on, and Crowley felt a sense of gloom settle in his stomach. He hated the idea of dementors being so near all year long.

"They bloody better catch Black soon," he muttered to the twins as Dumbledore moved on to announce two new teachers: Professor Remus Lupin, a battered but intelligent looking wizard, for Defense Against the Dark Arts—"He'd better be less of a twat than Lockhart or I swear to Merlin," Fred muttered—and none other than Hagrid as the new Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Crowley clapped as enthusiastically as the other Gryffindors, though he had liked Kettleburn. He figured it was a good time for the older professor to retire, what with his growing deafness and his tendency to lose limbs.

"Well, I think that's everything of importance," Dumbledore finished; "let the feast begin!"

The golden platters and goblets suddenly filled to bursting with food and drink, and Crowley heard a gasped "Whoa!" from beside him. He shot Adam a grin.

"Huh. At least now we know why those dementors were on the train," George commented as he reached for a chicken leg.

"Don't know what the Ministry thinks they can do, seeing as Black's already slipped past them once," Fred threw in. "And did you see Dumbledore's face? He certainly isn't happy about it."

Crowley loaded his plate and then sipped his pumpkin juice as his gaze wandered around the Hall, scoping out his friends.

There was Newton at the Hufflepuff table, chatting with another fifth year, Cedric Diggory, and failing to notice that he'd spilled mashed potatoes down his robes.

His eyes wandered next to the Ravenclaw table, where he could just glimpse the back of Aziraphale's head and—no, was that really?—yes: he had a book propped open next to his plate. Crowley snorted. Even at the first feast of the year his friend couldn't go an hour without reading something.

The candlelight was glinting mesmerizingly along the Ravenclaw's curls—Crowley jerked his eyes away, scowling at his own thoughts, and looked towards the Slytherin table.

Anathema was sitting next to a few third years, that stuck-up Malfoy and his gang of grunts, and she did not look happy about it.

As if feeling Crowley's gaze on her, she looked up and met his eyes through his shades. She rolled her eyes in Malfoy's direction—he was talking animatedly while his cronies laughed, and Crowley could only guess it was about some unsavory topic—and mimed puking; then, as he watched, she said something sharply to the third year. The pasty-faced boy whipped his head in Anathema's direction as if to make a retort, but seemed to think better of it when he saw the dangerous look on her face. He and his group grew silent, and picked moodily at their food. Anathema winked at Crowley, who grinned back.

"Who's that?" a voice came from Crowley's left, startling him.

"Oh, er…Anathema," Crowley told Adam, who was staring up at him. "And you've got gravy on your chin," he said automatically***.

Adam ignored the last half of Crowley's reply. "That's a funny name. How come so many people here've got such funny names?"

Funny? Oh, right, he supposed muggles had different tastes when it came to naming their kids. "It's just what wizarding families do," he said; "often there's an old family name or whatever that they've been using for centuries."

"Is your name funny then?"

"I don't think so—is Anthony funny?"

"No, that's pretty normal, I know probably five of those." Adam sounded disappointed.

Crowley went back to his roast beef, but was interrupted by a nudge at his elbow. "Anthony?" He almost dropped his knife.

"Er, no, I'm not—I don't go by that," he said. "It's Crowley. Just call me Crowley."

"Sorry. So, um…I was just wonderin' if I'm weird for havin', you know, muggle parents and all."

"No," he answered firmly. "And if anybody tells you that you are, punch them in the gut, or zap them with a jinx, whichever's quicker."

Adam gave him a strange look, as if digesting this advice. Then he said, simply, "Okay," and tucked into the shepherd's pie on his plate without another word.

Crowley watched for a moment, nonplussed, then decided to give up on comprehending the boy beside him. He turned to Fred and George, who were recounting a tale of a haunted pyramid they'd visited that summer to their friend, Lee Jordan. Enjoying the feast and laughing at the twins' exploits, the dementors were forgotten. There was the whole of fifth year to look forward to.

* * *

_Footnotes_

*His favorite part was retelling their escapades to Aziraphale later, who always attempted to appear disapproving but could never quite hold back his giggles after they'd knocked back a few butterbeers.

**After long effort, he'd finally managed to lift the charm the twins had placed on it that had caused it to flash "bigboy" and "pinhead".

***Which was very strange, really—what did he care if some kid had gravy on his face? Yet he did care, somehow; he even had to resist the urge to reach out with his napkin to wipe it away himself. Definitely strange.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can it be? An update before a whole month has passed? It's very short and rather pointless, though, so don't be too excited, dearies.  
> (Oh, and I did my best to imitate Adam's method of speech as seen in _Good Omens_ ; I'm not sure how good a job I did with that, but yes, the grammatical issues in his speech are intentional. )

Crowley was sprawled across an armchair by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, his arms folded on his bulging stomach, enjoying the lethargy that a massive feast brings on, when a high-pitched voice across the room broke through his stupor.

"Uh, Mr. Percy Weasley, sir? Adam's crying, up in our dormitory…we don't know what to do."

Crowley opened one heavy lid and looked lazily over to where Percy was sitting, a couple of first year boys gazing up at him beseechingly. The Head Boy was peering at them through his horn-rimmed glasses, looking at a loss as to what to do with this information. He readjusted the badge on his robes distractedly.

"Right. Well, I suppose he must be homesick, that's only to be expected—I suggest you just let him have his cry, and he's bound to stop, soon enough."

"But the thing is, he's doin' something weird—there's a funny feeling in the room—"

Percy looked alarmed. "He's doing magic?"

"Sorta. But it's not hurting anything, it's just…kinda freaky."

" _Really_ freaky," the second boy amended.

Percy shut the book he'd been reading and stood. "Take me to him," he commanded.

 _Poor little bastard_ , Crowley thought; _he'll be hoping for comfort and all he'll get is Percy preaching at him_. He sighed.

"Hey, Weasley," he called, stretching his limbs luxuriously and rising lithely from his armchair.

Percy turned, looking annoyed. "What, Crowley?"

"Let me go calm him."

"What, _you_?" he returned, bemused.

Around the common room, the handful of students who hadn't headed off to bed yet perked up their heads, curious to hear this interchange between their grandiose Head Boy and the usually taciturn Crowley. "Yeah, I'll go talk to the kid."

Percy didn't look convinced. "I think I'll just—"

"Come on, Weasley," Crowley wheedled, "it's not like you want some first year blubbering into your robes."

That was a compelling enough argument for Percy. "All right, Crowley," he conceded. "But, er, call me if things get out of hand."

Crowley sauntered towards the boys' tower, ignoring the curious glances thrown his way, and started up the stairs to the first years' dormitory.

He felt a charged sort of energy even before he'd reached for the door. Wincing as the handle shocked his hand with static electricity, he stepped inside.

The room was dark, so that Crowley had to pull off his sunglasses to see. The only light came from the sparks crackling through the room, surging along the walls and bedposts. Crowley felt his hair rise along his scalp.

A muffled sobbing was emanating from the bed farthest from the door. Crowley strode over to the form quivering beneath the sheets.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, and suddenly realized he had no idea what to say. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Adam?"

The shape in the bedclothes froze. There was a surge of sparks, momentarily lighting the room in an eerie gold-green glow; Crowley sprang from the bed as sparks snaked up his body, sizzling electrically. "Ow!"

The figure stirred, and a round, tear-smudged face poked out from the blankets. "Sorry, Crowley," Adam said huskily. "I can't make the magic stop."

"Sure you can," Crowley argued firmly. "Look at yourself, crying like a baby, scaring your roommates away—is that what you want? To scare them?"

"I can't help it!" the first year cried, and Crowley was pleased to hear anger in his tone—anger would distract him from his despondency, at least.

"Get a hold of yourself," Crowley continued, making his voice gruff. "It's _your_ magic, you _can_ control it—you have to, or _it_ will control _you_."

Adam's face grew hard, his eyes narrowed, and Crowley wondered if playing it tough had been a bad idea. He started to back away, suddenly thinking he should be very wary of the eleven-year-old boy with the puffy eyes and tear tracks on his cheeks—but then Adam's expression relaxed, his shoulders fell, and the energy pulsing through the room ebbed away.

"I just—I miss Dog!" he croaked, and crumpled into the sheets, his crying renewed.

Cautiously, Crowley reseated himself beside Adam's shaking form. "A dog, huh? I've never had any pets but my owl, but I like animals too." He pondered what to say next. He doubted telling the kid he'd stop missing his dog eventually would be very helpful; damn, he was bad at this whole consoling thing. "So, uh, what's Dog like?"

To his surprise, this tactic seemed to work. Adam looked up, gave an almighty sniff, wiped messily at the tears and snot on his face with his pajama sleeve, and began, "Dog's not a big dog, he's the kind you have fun with—real small, and he's got a ear that's all floppy and inside out, and he always does everythin' I say…"

It went on for quite some while. Eventually, Crowley had to cut in. "Sounds like a great dog," he interrupted when Adam paused a moment.

"Oh, he is! Dog's the best dog that ever was." To Crowley's alarm, his eyes suddenly welled with tears again. "I sure wish he could of come with me—I wanna learn magic, I really do, but I don't see why Dog couldn't come too, when other people brought dumb old cats along!"

"I know, it's a rubbish rule," Crowley interjected hastily. "But you know, there are plenty of animals at Hogwarts—creatures I bet you've never seen before."

Adam peered at him doubtfully. "Like what?"

"Well, pixies and ghouls, for a start, just lurking around where you'd least expect them, and merfolk and a giant squid in the lake," he listed, and racked his brain for more. "Then there's whatever Hagrid's got prepared for his classes—oh! Hagrid has a dog. Not as good a one as your Dog, I'm sure, and really slobbery, but, you know."

Adam's face lit up. "You've gotta take me to see him! You will, won't you, Crowley?"

Crowley found he couldn't say no to that face. "Sure. Now, how about you get to sleep. And no more crying, okay? You'll love it here, I promise."

The other first year boys were slumped in the landing outside the door, looking glum.

"Room's all yours," he told them.

"You mean you got him to stop doing that freaky static thing?"

"Yep." He made his way up the spiral staircase, to the fifth year dormitory, where his four-poster bed was waiting for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd go ahead and shake things up for this chapter—but hush darlings, no need for alarm, it's just a minor shift in viewpoints. This one's written from Aziraphale's perspective instead of Crowley's, because hey, who doesn't want a better look into the mind of our favorite angel-turned-Ravenclaw? Shhh. Just relax and enjoy where the story leads you. All is well.

" _Boo_."

"Good heavens!" Aziraphale exclaimed as a sudden hand on his shoulder startled him from his reading. He dropped his spoon in surprise, splashing porridge onto the pages of his book.

"Honestly, Crowley, must you still do that? I'd rather hoped you would mature a bit over the summer," he huffed reproachfully. " _Tergeo_ ," he murmured, running his wand over the porridge-stained pages, effectively returning them to an immaculate state.

"Maybe if you'd stop reading at mealtimes, I wouldn't be able to sneak up on you so easily," Crowley retorted, swinging his legs over the bench and reaching past Aziraphale for the platter of toast. "And," he added as he slathered on jam, "maybe you would've noticed that they're handing out the timetables. Being the kindhearted person I am, I went ahead and picked yours up for you."

Aziraphale gave a little squeak and seized the parchment Crowley was holding out to him. His nose nearly touched its surface as he scanned it eagerly.

"Oh! Ravenclaws and Gryffindors have Herbology together at nine, that's nice. Ooh, and my Ancient Runes class is today, how exciting—"

"Speaking of Herbology, Az, we should get going if we want to make it before nine," Crowley cut in.

Aziraphale glanced at his wristwatch. "Oh my, is that the time? Yes, let's be off."

The storm from last night had vanished with the dawn, and the sky overhead was washed-out but clear as they trekked over the soggy grass towards the greenhouses.

They joined the fifth years filing into one of the upper level greenhouses and settled down at a table with Aziraphale's fellow Ravenclaw, a pallid boy with faded blond hair and watery gray eyes whom everyone called Chalky*. Fred and George ambled in last of all, and joined them at their table.

Professor Sprout began as soon as everyone was settled. "Welcome back, dearies!" she beamed around at them all from beneath her dusty brown witch's hat; "I hope you all had a pleasant summer and are plenty rested for the big year ahead of you!" Then she grew more serious, though her eyes remained sunny. "As I'm sure you are aware, fifth year is a big turning point in your magical careers—this is the year you begin to consider potential vocations, and, of course, you have the O.W.L.s in the spring. As your other professors will no doubt tell you, you will find that your workload increases significantly. I have great faith in every one of you, however, and I'm sure you'll all rise to the challenge!"

Sprout went on talking about O.W.L.s for several minutes. As she spoke, Aziraphale felt a tension building in his chest. So much work to be done, and so much riding on it—their whole futures depending on the accomplishments of this one year! He was relieved when she stopped at last, and introduced the project for today's class.

They'd be working with screechsnap seeds—"An easy enough task, but I leave it to my fifth years because screechsnap plants are very sensitive—does anyone know why?"

Aziraphale flung his hand into the air so quickly he almost hit Crowley in the face. "Because screechsnap is semi-sentient," he rattled off. "It is able to feel pain and pleasure, as well as move and generate sound—hence its name, _screech_ snap."

"Very good, five points to Ravenclaw," Professor Sprout awarded. "Now everyone, gather supplies from the station in the back and work with your tables to properly pot the seeds."

"We'll get the stuff," Crowley informed Chalky and the twins, and Aziraphale followed him with the rest of the students who were making their way to the back of the room.

"Here, take this," Crowley ordered, thrusting a burlap sack at Aziraphale. It was emitting a ghastly stench.

"What in heaven's name is _in_ this?" he asked, scrunching up his nose.

"Dragon dung, of course," Crowley replied matter-of-factly as he scooped up pots and seeds and balanced them precariously in his own arms.

"Ugh!" Aziraphale exclaimed, holding the sack as far away from himself as he could.

"Just get it back to the table, Az," Crowley said distractedly, struggling to keep soil from spilling from the trays he'd piled on top of the pots in his arms.

He heaved the manure-filled bag dutifully back to the table.

Crowley wasn't far behind, and bustled about laying down trays and pots.

"Okay," he said, "Chalky, you pull out your textbook and read the instructions, keep us from messing anything up. Fred, George, you two spread the manure as Az and I lay out the screechsnap—don't pile it too heavily, though; the seeds'll be pretty vocal about it if you do."

"That's cool, Crowley, give us dung duty, thanks," George said, but he and Fred reached for their work gloves nevertheless.

"And don't even think of flicking the seeds about," Crowley warned them.

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Fred innocently.

The work went smoothly—more so for them than for some of the surrounding tables, where seeds that were being handled too carelessly let off grating shrieks. Professor Sprout reprimanded the members of one table, where unwatched seeds had begun an escape attempt and cascaded onto the floor, rolling every which way.

Aziraphale had never had Herbology with the Gryffindors before, and so was pleasantly surprised to see how Crowley took to his role as unstated leader of their table like—like, well, like a duck to water. He'd rarely seen his friend so focused on one task, his typical air of insouciance replaced by a cool intensity.

And, Aziraphale noted to himself, everyone had accepted Crowley's leadership without a word of discussion needing to be made. Chalky read as instructed from the textbook in his pale, whispery voice. Even Fred and George listened to him—though they also flicked bits of dung at each other and anyone else they could reach when Crowley wasn't looking.

"Az, are you daydreaming again? Let that seed go before it throws an all-out tantrum."

Aziraphale, jolted from his musings, looked guiltily down at the seed he'd forgotten he was holding. It was squirming in his grasp and groaning threateningly. He dropped it into a pocket of earth in a tray, grimacing apologetically.

When the period was coming to its close, their table had potted more of the seeds than any other, earning them warm praise from Professor Sprout.

She closed the lesson by assigning them a four-foot essay, and Aziraphale felt the tension in his chest return; Crowley's hand on his arm abated it a bit, and he did his best to shrug the feeling off—no use growing stressed about homework already, after all.

"What's your next class?" Crowley was asking him as they left the greenhouse behind.

"Potions," Aziraphale responded, "with the Hufflepuffs."

"Well, at least you'll have Newt to entertain you," Crowley remarked; neither of them were particularly fond of Potions, and especially of its professor, Snape.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. They both knew how dismal the gangly Hufflepuff was at Potions; Aziraphale would likely be spending every class trying to keep Newton from accidentally blowing the cauldron up. "I take it you have it with Anathema?"

"Yeah, later this evening. Right now, I've got Charms."

"Lucky you," said Aziraphale. Charms was one of his best classes. "Anyway, Herbology was significantly more enjoyable with you in it."

"Glad to hear that," Crowley said with a genuine smile. They'd reached the Entrance Hall. "Okay, I'm off to Charms, try to keep Newt from drenching his robes in acid the way he did that one time last year."

"Two times—he did that twice," Aziraphale corrected, and sighed. "I'll do my best."

They parted ways, one heading for the Charms room and the other descending into the chilly Hogwarts dungeons.

* * *

_Footnotes:_

*Despite having shared a dormitory with him for what was going on five years, Aziraphale knew eerily little about Chalky. He was grateful to have the bed furthest from him, as Chalky's part of the room always seemed to develop a stale sort of smell, and dust and grime tended to collect along it faster than the house-elves could keep up with.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone notice Aziraphale getting his Hermione on? He'll probably do that pretty frequently; I feel there are a lot of similarities between the two of them.
> 
> Okay, but what I really want to do with this endnote here is to make it clear that I am very much open for suggestions of all kinds—exciting, right? I've reached the stage in this story where the chapter content will be very flexible more a while, so let me know if there's something in particular (a character, a class, an event, etc.) that you'd like me to include!
> 
> As has already been requested, I've begun incorporating the horsepersons in—hopefully you recognized Pollution here—so as you can see, I really will take your comments into account. There may be times, of course, when I'll have to decline your suggestions, because there is a main plotline that I am following here. But yes, share your ideas and I'll see what I can do; I love to make my readers happy, when I can!


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley was in a bad mood when he joined Aziraphale at the Ravenclaw table the next morning.

"Did you hear? Care of Magical Creatures is cancelled for today," he grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and seizing a plate rather aggressively with the other.

"Oh?" Aziraphale responded distractedly; he was reading from his Arithmancy textbook. "Why?"

"That Slytherin prat Malfoy went and got himself injured by one of the hippogriffs—hippogriffs, Az! Do you know how long I've wanted to see one of those?" He stabbed savagely at his French toast, alarming the first year sitting across from them. "And now I doubt Hagrid'll be allowed to show them to any of his other classes."

Aziraphale put his book down reluctantly, turning his full attention to his agitated friend. "Well, look on the bright side—you've now got almost two full hours to get started on the Potions essay."

Crowley fixed him with a glare. Aziraphale blinked tranquilly back. "What? Or your Muggle Studies paper, weren't you complaining last night about how long it has to be?"

"Not helping, Az," Crowley growled.

"Sorry."

Crowley declined his invitation to go study in the library, so Aziraphale headed off by himself, mentally planning what he'd get done in his unexpected free time before Transfiguration.

As he ambled, lost in thought, towards his favorite study table among the history of magic shelves, a bushy-haired figure darting through the library careened into him.

"Hermione! Hallo!" Aziraphale exclaimed, bending down to pick up the book she'd dropped. "Why the rush?"

"Oh! Hello, Aziraphale," she panted, working to regain her breath. "I'm just looking something up before my next class—I'm trying to find this one book but I just can't seem to think of where it would be and I can't locate Madame Pince and—"

"Which book, my dear?" Aziraphale interrupted.

" _Runology of the Ranrike_ ," she told him; "I've looked for it in all the obvious places, but it doesn't seem to be anywhere."

"Well, you're in luck," Aziraphale said with a smile; "I read that last year, I can lead you right to it."

He quite liked the third year Gryffindor, who shared his great affinity for books. He'd met her in a more advanced section of the library two years ago. At first he'd been skeptical—whatever was a first year doing so deep in the biographies of medieval wizards? Surely none of her classes required that. But it had turned out she'd been interested in the old philosopher Nicholas Flamel; he'd been happy to point her to the books he'd known to mention the name.

Hermione took the book gratefully from Aziraphale after he'd located it for her.

"Thanks, Aziraphale. I've got to be off now, Ancient Runes starts soon."

"Does it start at nine?" Aziraphale asked. He glanced at his watch. "It's 8:58 right now; I'm afraid you won't be able to make it on time."

"Oh, no, I'll make it, don't worry," she said, already dashing away, leaving him to shake his head bemusedly and then to settle down to get some work done.

* * *

Aziraphale almost forgot to head off to Transfiguration on time, having engrossed himself in a book; he slipped into the seat beside Crowley just as Professor McGonagall stood to begin class.

Just as all the teachers had yesterday, McGonagall began by lecturing them on the increased workload they'd be experiencing this year.

"And I feel it is only proper," she was saying, her keen eyes flitting from student to student, "to inform you that I only accept into my NEWT classes those students who receive an Exceeds Expectations or higher at the Ordinary Wizarding Level. Please keep that in mind whenever you find this year that you have to choose between idle merrymaking—" here her gaze seemed to linger particularly long on the Weasley twins, who were seated at the table in front of Aziraphale and Crowley—"and studying for this course."

The day's lesson, after McGonagall had finished speaking, was to transfigure a dove into a pair of silk gloves. This was by far one of the most challenging bits of magic she'd ever set for them, and having just come back from the long summer break, no one did very well.

After half an hour of waving his wand around and saying the required spell in all the different intonations he could think of, Aziraphale enviously eyed the glove Crowley had managed to produce. It was only one glove, not the pair they were aiming for, and the fingers were all the wrong sizes and rather lumpy; also, rather than smooth silk, the glove seemed to be made of gray-white feathers. Still, it was much better than what Aziraphale had accomplished—namely, a ruffled but utterly untransformed dove that was now pecking at his hand irritably.

"I just don't understand it," he grumbled crossly; "I can do inanimate objects just fine, but as soon as I'm given an animal I can't so much as get its feathers to vanish."

The dove suddenly made a leap for freedom, hopping into the air and spreading its wings. Aziraphale lunged for it before it could take off, nearly crushing it beneath his arms and chest in his efforts.

"Get off it, Az, before you smother it," Crowley said.

Aziraphale sheepishly lifted himself from off the bird, which was now even more bedraggled than before, a look of pure hatred in its beady black eyes.

"Look what you did, Az, its wing is all bent," Crowley scolded. He sighed. "Give it here."

Aziraphale looked guiltily at the crooked wing. "Oh dear," he said worriedly. "Do you think it's in pain?"

Crowley murmured a spell, and the wing righted itself. "Not anymore. Now be more careful, will you?"

McGonagall walked by at that moment; she tsked at Aziraphale's unchanged dove and nodded approvingly at Crowley's rather misshapen glove.

"Humph," was Aziraphale's response as she moved on to the next table, where Fred and George were enchanting two cast-off feathers to duel each other.

* * *

Aziraphale had Charms next, to his relief—after his abysmal performance in Transfiguration, he needed a class he could actually handle. It was Ravenclaws with Slytherins, so he slid into the seat beside Anathema as Flitwick began the expected speech about the challenges of the coming year. He then set them to work at the _locomotor_ charm.

"So, how are you, Anathema?" Aziraphale asked as he set a chair afloat. "How are things at home?"

"Good, good," Anathema said, waving her wand at a desk and glowering as it remained firmly on the floor.

"You're swinging your wand too wide on the upstroke," Aziraphale told her; "here, look at the diagram in the book. Keep your elbow stiff and give your wrist only the slightest flick upward."

She did as he instructed, and the desk obligingly rose a few inches into the air.

"And how is Semele?" Aziraphale asked.

"Oh, we broke up at the beginning of the summer," Anathema replied. Her voice was emotionless, but the desk fell back to the floor as she spoke. "She ended it," she admitted. "But I agreed it was for the best—being apart most of the year while I'm at Hogwarts just…wasn't working out."

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Anathema," Aziraphale said.

"It's all right, I've had all summer to get over it. And, well, I did see it coming." She sighed, and for a moment she allowed Aziraphale to see behind her façade. "It's just, sometimes…I don't _want_ to see these things coming, you know?"

He took her hand* in both of his. "I really am sorry, dear."

"Thanks, Aziraphale." She gently extracted her hand and returned to casting charms. The sadness on her face faded and she smiled faintly. "Besides, I've got my eye on someone else now."

Aziraphale felt a rare wave of playfulness rise up in him. "Well, I wonder who that might be," he teased; Anathema flicked him over the head with her wand.

* * *

After lunch, Aziraphale joined Crowley making his way for the North Tower.

"I can't believe you've convinced me to take this rubbish class again this year, Az," Crowley complained as they made their way up the silvery ladder and through the trapdoor into the hazy Divination classroom.

"It's for Anathema, Crowley," Aziraphale reminded him placidly, searching through the smoke and crimson-tinged light until he spotted Anathema and Newton sitting on two of the beanbags at one of the twenty or so round tables. There weren't enough students in their year who'd elected to take Divination, and so members of all four Houses had it at the same time.

They were beginning Cartomancy today, Professor Trelawney informed them, using a standard deck of playing cards.

"For today," Professor Trelawney announced in her misty, faraway voice, "we shall be looking only at the one-card spread. This is a technique that even those with the foggiest, faintest Inner Eye should have little trouble with." Aziraphale nudged Crowley, grinning. "The difficulty lies in interpreting the card you draw. Work with your tablemates to divine the secret meanings of your card."

Anathema shuffled their deck, and each drew a card as instructed in the textbook.

"I don't put much stock in Cartomancy myself," Anathema informed them, "and especially not the one-card spread." Trelawney, who was wandering by at that moment, her strings of beads clinking and bangles jingling around her bony wrists, scowled through her thick round glasses at the Slytherin girl, but said nothing**.

"I got a seven of hearts," Newton announced; "what's that mean?"

Crowley scanned the chart in his textbook. "Er…looks like someone's affections towards you are 'fickle,' I'm not sure what it means by that…characterized by lovesickness and disappointment. Sorry, mate."

Newton looked dejected. "Head up, Newt," Aziraphale encouraged him, "Anathema says there's not much point to these, anyway."

Crowley curled himself cozily into his chintz armchair and spoke in a drowsy drawl. "Mine's an eight of spades, anyone care to let me know what terrible calamities that means I can expect from my future before I fall asleep?"***

Aziraphale took Crowley's textbook. "Oh my, yours isn't very auspicious, either. 'Plans gone awry'—though it says that trouble can be avoided if you catch it early on. Trouble, misfortune, danger…"

"I'm quaking in my boots," Crowley yawned, and shut his eyes to fall into slumber.

"What's yours, Anathema?" Newton asked.

"Oh, the ace of hearts, but like I said, these aren't at all accurate," she said dismissively. "Aziraphale's is king of clubs, look his up for him."

"'Dark-haired or fire-dominated figure,'" Newton read. "'Represents a very good friend or lifelong companion.' Well, that's not incredibly enlightening, but at least it's not a gloomy reading, I guess."

They were let out of Divination early, after being assigned nightly dream journal entries.

"More homework, just what we needed," Crowley mumbled after Aziraphale had prodded him awake. Aziraphale helped pull him up from the squashy armchair, and the four of them made their way down through the trapdoor and away from the North Tower.

* * *

_Footnotes:_

*An action that might have seemed odd, if anyone but Aziraphale had done it.

**Trelawney and Anathema had a rather strained relationship, beginning when Anathema had openly scoffed at the dreamy-eyed professor's assertion that tealeaves provided one of the most practical forms of Divination during their first lesson in third year. The two of them often engaged in overly-polite debates about how to translate the results of various divining methods, while the rest of the class would look on curiously. However, Trelawney maintained a grudging respect for Anathema ever since the dark-haired Slytherin's prediction two years back that one of Hogwarts' teachers was a traitor—referring, of course, to the (literally) two-faced Professor Quirrell—proved correct, and she tended to leave Anathema to her own devices during class.

***Crowley had a habit of sneaking naps during Divination lessons—the heat from the fire and silk-draped windows that most students found stifling had a comfortably soporific effect on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised a Care of Magical Creatures scene, but I fear it shall be postponed a while. However, I hope those who requested the trio appreciated my quick Hermione insert; hopefully I'll be able to include her and the rest of the trio again. (Also, *crosses fingers that someone notices the dove joke/allusion*)  
> I don't know if all the in-class scenes are getting tedious, so next chapter is going to be an exciting one, don't worry! And if anyone has more suggestions for things they'd like to see, keep 'em coming, and I'll do my best to incorporate them!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which poor Aziraphale is completely done with Crowley's nonsense.
> 
> This bit got longer than expected, so this chapter ends on something of a cliffhanger (sorry, dearies), and I'll try to get the next part up some time this weekend.

Crowley gulped down the last of his pumpkin juice and bounded over to the Ravenclaw table, where Aziraphale was busy with his pudding.

"Come on, up you get, Az, dinner's over," he said, tugging at his friend's elbow.

"Let me finish my treacle, at least!" Aziraphale protested, but he allowed the Gryffindor to drag him off the bench and out of the Hall.

"Why are we in such a hurry, anyway?" Aziraphale panted as he tried to keep up. "Oh no, don't tell me—this is about that silly war you're having over those chairs, isn't it?"

"You bet," Crowley answered, grinning as he sped up a staircase, the winded Ravenclaw in tow.

"Can you _get_ any more childish?"

"I do my best."

They reached the portrait leading into Gryffindor Tower, and Crowley breathlessly uttered the password. "Bringing along your Ravenclaw friend again?"* the Fat Lady commented as her frame swung outward to let them through.

They clambered through the portrait hole, and Crowley made a beeline for the seats situated directly in front of the flames roaring cheerily in the fireplace. He collapsed triumphantly into his favorite armchair as Aziraphale trailed after him, crumpling into the chair beside him with a sigh.

A few minutes later, as the rest of the dinner crowd made their way to their common rooms, Harry Potter and his little band of friends trooped in. Ron Weasley shot them a dirty look as he and the two other third years passed on their way to less desirable seats further off from the fire. Crowley smirked back, while Aziraphale offered Hermione an apologetic smile.

This unspoken battle between the Potter trio and Crowley for the fireside chairs had been underway for years now, much to Aziraphale's exasperation.

"Was it really worth missing pudding for this?" the Ravenclaw grumbled as he began pulling papers and quills from his bag.

"If by 'this' you mean victory over a few third years and obtaining the most coveted seats in the room, then yeah, definitely," Crowley replied.

Aziraphale executed a truly impressive eye-roll (he'd had five years of friendship with Crowley in which to practice it) but said nothing more, settling into his homework.

Crowley did not begin working right away. Instead he gazed into the fire, relishing the sensation of its warmth soaking through his skin and into his bones. He settled back in his armchair and thought back on the past week.

It was Friday evening, and so the first week of classes had drawn to a close. It was slowly dawning on all the fifth years collectively that this school year was going to be a _lot_ of work.

Even the petty victory of beating some younger students to the best spot in the common room wasn't enough to keep Crowley's mood high for long. As it had been all week, his mind gradually wandered towards the hippogriffs he doubted Hagrid would ever be allowed to show them. Stupid Malfoy—he made a mental note to give the blond-haired twat hell at the soonest opportunity.

"You're very quiet tonight, Crowley. …Please tell me you're not moping over those hippogriffs again."

Crowley made no answer, choosing rather to glower moodily into the flames.

"Honestly, if it's such a big deal to you, why don't you just go _see_ them some time?" Aziraphale said, not looking up from the parchment on which he was scrawling out his Potions essay.

Crowley mulled that thought over for a moment. Yeah…why _not_ just go and see them?

Aziraphale put down his quill. "Well, it's almost curfew; I'd best be heading back to—Crowley? Where are you going?"

Crowley had stood up and was sauntering over to where the Weasley twins were sitting at a table in a quiet corner of the room. They were whispering conspiratorially together about Merlin knew what, huddled over a long length of parchment that Crowley could only assume bore plans for future nefarious pranks.

They looked up as Crowley approached; George discreetly rolled up the parchment as Fred said, "Hey, Crowley. What brings you to our humble little nook this fine evening?"

"I was wondering if I could borrow that map of yours," Crowley told them.

"Are you planning a bit of nighttime mischief? Tsk tsk, Crowley," George said, shaking his finger in mock reproof; "you'll come to no good if you show such disregard for the rules."

"How can we possibly sleep soundly at night if we assist you in your godless ways?" Fred added, but he grinned as he said it.

"As it happens, we've got it right here with us." George reached into his bag and drawing out a battered, grubby old bit of parchment. He held it out to Crowley. "I suppose we owe you from getting us out of that bind with your prefect friend."**

"Thanks," Crowley said, taking the proffered parchment and springing away, back towards where Aziraphale was gathering his things into his bag.

"I'm off, Crowley, I'll see you tomorr— _now_ where are you going?" Aziraphale demanded as Crowley strode right past him and towards the common room's exit. "You don't have to walk me back, if that's what you're doing; curfew will arrive before you could get back—"

"I'm not walking you back, I'm going out," Crowley informed him, pausing with one hand on the smooth, blank back of the Fat Lady's frame, poised to push it open.

" _Out_? Out where?" the Ravenclaw asked exasperatedly, keeping his voice low. "Crowley, the first week of school's only just ended, I am _not_ letting you get into trouble _already_."

"I'm going to see the hippogriffs," Crowley replied, and pushed the portrait open.

"The hippogriffs!" Aziraphale squeaked, scrambling out after the Gryffindor. "You can't be serious, it's two to nine right now, and you're bound to be caught!"

"I've got the twins' map with me."

As Crowley had expected, this response caused his friend to stop short, his eyes widening behind his glasses. Crowley had told him about the map before, but Aziraphale had never seen it. Crowley knew how such artifacts fascinated the bookish Ravenclaw.

"Do you mind if I, er, take a look at it?"

"Sorry, no can do," Crowley replied coolly, continuing his walk down the corridor; Aziraphale hurried after him. "Unless, of course, you come with me."

He gleefully observed the indecision flashing across his companion's face—Aziraphale's mind, Crowley knew, was weighing the consequences of being out after dark against the thrill of getting to examine such an interesting object.

"Oh, all right," Aziraphale said at last. "But if we get caught I'm blaming it entirely on you. ...And get that smug smile off your face."

They made their way down lesser used corridors, doing their best to keep quiet as nine o'clock approached and curfew fell. As they walked, Crowley pulled out the square bit of parchment the twins had given him and tapped it lightly with his wand, murmuring, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good" as Aziraphale watched curiously.

Thin tendrils of ink radiated outward from where his wandtip had glanced the parchment's surface, etching out curling, spindly words: _Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers, Proudly Present The Marauder's Map_.

Crowley grinned at his counterpart's small gasp as the ink skated across the page, forming an incredibly intricate map of Hogwarts castle and its grounds. Little dots moved about the paper, a good number of them clustered into the four common rooms, each with a name attached to it in tiny ink letters.

"Wonderful," Aziraphale breathed.

"There we are," Crowley said, pointing at two black dots. "Oh, and good, there's Peeves, way on the other side of the castle. And—oh. Oh, damn."

Another dot was moving across the parchment, headed directly towards them. The small cursive script beside it read _Filch_.

"Come on, Az, quick!" Crowley grabbed his friend's arm.

"Look, coming from the other direc—" Aziraphale started to say, but was cut off as Crowley nearly yanked him off his feet, tugging him towards the nearby supply closet. They tumbled in, Crowley just managing to pull the door shut behind them as he fell on top of Aziraphale.

They landed awkwardly, and worked to untangle their limbs as silently as they could in the darkness. The sound of approaching footsteps caused them to freeze in their efforts at disentanglement.

Crowley's heart was racing, and he was sure Aziraphale's was too. They'd frozen while at a very uncomfortable angle: Aziraphale was on the floor with one leg stretched out and the other tucked painfully beneath him, while Crowley was half on top of him practically in his lap, paused just as he'd started to stand up.

In the darkness he could just make out his friend's face, inches from his own. His heart skipped a beat, and a sort of terror that had nothing to do with possible capture by the bad-tempered caretaker surged through him. He felt the sudden awful impulse to do something very, very stupid. He began to lean forward—

And then the door to the supply closet was yanked open.

* * *

_Footnotes_

*The Gryffindors were all accustomed to Aziraphale's presence in their common room; he spent a large number of his evenings in there with Crowley, just as Crowley often made the trek up to the Ravenclaw tower.

**He was referring to the other afternoon, when Crowley had turned down a corridor to find Newton reprimanding the twins for graffiti-ing crude messages onto the wall there; Crowley had convinced Newt not to write them up or detract any points from Gryffindor.


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale was frozen in place with his leg bent painfully underneath him and his best friend pressed awkwardly into him. There was hardly any space between their faces in the shadows.

And suddenly Crowley was leaning forward, closing the gap between them. Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat, he felt his heart hitch and then race even more fiercely than before…

And then the door to the supply closet was yanked open.

A tiny figure was silhouetted in the light from the corridor—much too small to be Filch. The figure slipped in and shut the door behind him before promptly tripping over Crowley and falling on top of both the other occupants of the closet.

"Ouch!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

"Sorry," came a squeak of a voice.

" _Adam_?" Aziraphale heard Crowley demand. "What the hell are you—"

"Shh!" Aziraphale ordered, as another set of footsteps were heard from outside—a heavier tread this time.

The three young wizards held their breaths as the shuffling steps grew closer, and closer…and then moved past the closet and faded down the corridor.

As one they released their breaths. After a moment more, Aziraphale, trying to get his heart to slow to a reasonable pace, spoke up. "Can you two please get off me now? I've lost feeling in my leg."

They extricated themselves as best as they could, knocking over brooms and buckets in the process and making enough ruckus, in Aziraphale's opinion, to bring all the professors of Hogwarts swooping down on them.

"Okay," Crowley said as he helped Aziraphale stand up, "Adam, _what_ are you doing out of Gryffindor Tower this late?"

"Followin' you, of course," Adam answered in a defensive tone. "I heard you two, you're goin' to see the hippogriffs. I wanna see them too!"

"No way, kid, back to the common room you go," Crowley said.

"Crowley, we have to walk him back, we can't just send him off on his own," Aziraphale chided. "Just admit this idea was a silly one and go see the hippogriffs in the morning."

"We aren't supposed to go looking for them; if I do it in the morning I'm bound to be stopped," Crowley argued.

"And I'm _not_ going to bed," Adam interrupted. "I'm coming with you!"

Crowley ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "No, Adam, no use you getting in trouble too." He opened the closet door and stepped out, almost tripping over a mop in the process. Aziraphale and Adam filed out, and he shut it again with a scowl.

"You can't make me go—" Adam started to argue, and then suddenly stopped. "Yeah, you're right, I'll go back."

Aziraphale and Crowley watched as he headed off the way they'd come. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. "He's not actually heading back, is he?"

"Of course not." Crowley sighed. "Adam, we know you're just going to keep trailing us, so…come along, I guess. But keep quiet."

Aziraphale fixed Crowley with his most disapproving look. "It's one thing if you land the two of us in detention, but a first year? Really."

"Hey, you know as well as I do we can't stop him."

"We," Aziraphale grumbled, "could all return to the safety of our common rooms, and then _none_ of us would get in trouble."

"And where would the fun in that be?" Crowley said with a grin, and led them down a side corridor, a muttered " _Lumos_ " igniting his wandtip to light their way. "Here, I'll even let you hold the map if you'll stop your whining."

"Ooh!" Aziraphale squealed despite himself, eagerly taking the proffered parchment.

"Make sure to keep an eye out for teachers and prefects and the like."

Aziraphale looked at the map as they continued their trek in the dark, his own wand lit to illuminate the carefully depicted rooms and halls and figures.

"Hang on," he suddenly said, "there is another dot near us, Crowley. …Who's Pippin Galadriel Moon—hey!"

Crowley had seized the map from him. "Well, that's not a teacher, at least," he said, looking at the dot. "Whoever it is, though, they're right behind us."

"I know that name," Adam piped up. "Pepper, you can go ahead and show yourself," he called quietly into the shadowed hall from which they'd come.

Slowly, a girl with vividly red, cropped hair emerged from the darkness, a defiant look on her face. "If Adam doesn't have to go back, I sure don't," she declared, glaring up at the two fifth years, who were shining their wands at her like spotlights. "And get that light out of my eyes."

"Is everyone in the whole bloody castle following us?" Crowley groaned. "Well, join the parade if you really want to, but keep in mind that Az and I are not responsible for you if we're all caught."

They continued onward, Crowley in the lead, the two first years in the middle, and Aziraphale trailing along behind them, the map in hand. The Ravenclaw was too busy poring over the map—occasionally running into walls and tripping over his own feet as he tried to walk and study it at the same time—to pay attention to where they were headed. He bumped into Pepper as Crowley brought their little band to a halt.

"Hey!" she complained. "Watch it!"

"Sorry, dear," he murmured abstractedly as he finally looked up from the map. To his surprise, Crowley had led them not to the first floor, but to the fifth. They stood in front of the decidedly unflattering statue of Gregory the Smarmy.

"Are we sightseeing now?" Aziraphale asked dryly.

"This," Crowley announced, choosing to ignore the comment, "is a secret passage leading out of the castle; it'll take us pretty close to the greenhouses."

He approached the statue and bent Gregory's upraised right arm at the elbow, whilst giving Gregory's bulbous marble nose an expert rap with his wand.

There was the groaning sound that comes when rock that would prefer to stay where it is, thank you very much, is forced to shift. Behind the statue, a sizable hole had been made in what had been a solid stone wall.

Crowley motioned them in, and they entered the narrow passage one by one. With a flick of his wand aimed at the tunnel's entrance, the wall resealed itself, leaving them in complete darkness but for the gentle glow still streaming from Aziraphale's wand. Crowley removed his sunglasses and tucked them into a pocket of his robes; it was too dark for them in here.

"It's real dark," Adam stated, a tremor evident in his voice.

"No need to be a baby about it," Pepper told him.

"I'm not being a baby!" Adam protested indignantly. "I'm just observin' that it's dark, is all. Can't I make a simple observation without gettin' accused of being a baby?"

It was too dim for anyone to notice Aziraphale roll his eyes once more* as Crowley interrupted the first years' argument. "Do you two know the _lumos_ charm yet?"

They shook their heads.

"No worries, it's a simple one; wands sort of know how to do it instinctively," he explained. "All you have to do is say—" here he held out his own wand— " _Lumos_. There, see?" he ended as his wand's tip blossomed into gold-white light, mingling with the beam Aziraphale's was casting to further illuminate the tunnel.

" _Lumos_ ," the two younger Gryffindors murmured in unison, and grinned as their wandtips too began to glow.

"There we go," Crowley said; "now it's plenty bright to get by, yeah?" Aziraphale smiled gently at the encouraging tone his friend was using with the first years.

The tunnel wound its way gradually downward. Some areas were a bit bumpy, and at one point it got so narrow that Crowley could barely squeeze through, let alone Aziraphale, but at last the tunnel ended suddenly, their way blocked by a wall of earth.

"Is it a dead end?" Aziraphale wondered worriedly, but Crowley shone his wand upward, where a trapdoor was set in the low ceiling. He leapt for the handle dangling down from it and tugged, and the trapdoor fell open.

"This is the tricky part," Crowley remarked, and swung himself up, grabbing at the edge of the trapdoor's hole and pulling himself through to settle in the grass above.

"Okay, Pepper, up you come," he called down, lowering his arms for her. Aziraphale gave her a boost, and Crowley lifted her up and out. Adam went next, leaving only Aziraphale.

"I could probably try and pull myself up," he said doubtfully.

"Nah, Az, you're about as athletic as a gnome," came Crowley's voice from above. "Just grab onto my hands, I can pull you up, no problem."

"Okay..." Aziraphale made a running leap and grabbed onto his friend's forearms; Crowley grunted under the weight, but managed after a moment's strain to hoist the pudgy Ravenclaw into the cool night air.

"Merlin, Az," he panted, rubbing his shoulders, "maybe you should lay off the pumpkin pasties."

"And maybe _you_ should keep rude comments to yourself," Aziraphale huffed irritably, as Pepper giggled.

They had emerged into a clump of hedges between greenhouses five and six. The moon was a fat sliver in the sky, having begun its decline from full a little over a week ago. Stars hung about it and shone palely through the thin and scattered cover of the clouds.

Quietly, they trekked across the grounds towards Hagrid's hut, a small silhouette with smoke issuing cheerily from its chimney against the forbidding backdrop of the Forbidden Forest.

"I think they're being kept somewhere along the edge of the Forest," Crowley said. "So we'll just have to walk to find out."

Adam didn't quite manage to stifle a yawn as they made their way along the border of the Forest.

"Tired?" Aziraphale said sharply, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be disapproving of this whole escapade, and especially of the two first years' presence.

"No," Adam replied quickly, and livened his step to catch up to Crowley and Pepper.

Pepper was pointing her glowing wand towards the trees, peering curiously among the trunks.

"I heard centaurs live in there," Aziraphale heard her telling Crowley. "Is that true?"

"It's a theory," Crowley replied.

"So, maybe?" Adam asked.

"Yeah. It's a possibility, but it's unconfirmed."

"Wicked," Adam breathed. "...Er, what exactly are centaurs?"

"Men with the bodies of horses," was Crowley's simplistic response; Aziraphale found himself rolling his eyes yet again from where he walked behind the three others.

"You said men," Pepper said, "but I bet there are women centaurs too. Are there?"

"Um...maybe?" Crowley responded in a nonplussed tone.

"Well then," Pepper asserted, "you should of said _people_ , not men."

"Right, sorry."

The edge of the Forest bent slightly, and suddenly a paddock came into view. Several silhouettes, larger than horses or lions, stood regal and still in the moonlight spilling through the clouds: the hippogriffs.

* * *

Footnotes:

*He'd rolled his eyes so many times already tonight that he really did run a risk of straining them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't where I'd intended to end this chapter, but it's getting late and I want to get this posted now, since this week's going to be a busy one and I probably won't have time to write for a bit. (You should be glad, though; I was going to end this on the most awful cliffhanger.) Sorry that not much happened in this chapter! Next one's going to have lots of action.


	8. Chapter 8

Adam moved as if to dash towards the paddock, but Crowley seized him by the back of his robes to stop him.

"Okay, you two," he said in one of the most serious voices Aziraphale had ever heard him use, looking from Adam to Pepper. His eyes, free of their usual shades, glinted golden in the moonlight. "Hippogriffs are bloody dangerous creatures if you don't treat them with the respect they deserve. You heard what happened to that prat Malfoy, didn't you?"

His grave tone seemed to have the effect he was aiming for on the pair of young Gryffindors; they nodded solemnly, eyes wide.

"They aren't horses, so don't expect a ride on them. And they sure as hell aren't puppies, so don't think they'll enjoy a nice belly rub—and for the love of Merlin, do _not_ use that babying voice people use with dogs. They hate rudeness and demand reverence, so if you don't want to be a hippogriff's next meal, you'll be calm and do as I say, got it?"

The two nodded again, more vigorously this time.

"Okay. Az and I will go forward first, and you two come, _quietly_ , behind us and mimic what we do."

"Actually," Aziraphale began, looking sheepish, "er, how about I stay back—to make sure Adam and Pepper are safe, and all."

Crowley fixed his friend with a look. "Are you scared?"

"Oh, no, why would I be scared of _giant, winged, bad-tempered horses_ with beaks that _can slice through my skin like paper_?"

"Shh, they'll hear you! Call them winged horses and they're bound to take offense." Crowley sighed. "That's fine though, you can stand back with the others. But you should like them, Az; they're incredibly intelligent."

Aziraphale watched as Crowley marched confidently but cautiously toward the paddock. "Oh, dear," he murmured worriedly, "I do hope he knows what he's doing." Then Crowley reached the paddock's gate, and neither Aziraphale nor the pair of first years at his side dared to make a sound.

As one, the hippogriffs raised their aquiline heads to observe the Gryffindor's approach, their luminous orange eyes following him warily. As he unlatched the gate, he moved his head from one to the next, connecting gazes with each of them in turn. Maintaining eye contact, Aziraphale remembered reading, was imperative when interacting with hippogriffs. He allowed himself a slight smile; his friend blinked almost unnervingly infrequently, so keeping eye contact should be no trouble for him.

All was still a moment, the hippogriffs as stoic as statues as they observed Crowley. A breeze picked up from the direction of the Forest, rattling through the shadowed boughs, ruffling the hippogriffs' feathers, and catching onto Crowley's robes, causing the black fabric to billow dramatically around him. He remained as motionless as the creatures before him, waiting for them to make the first move.

At last, one of them stepped forward. Both the feathers covering its head and wings and the equine coat of its torso and hind legs were black, glossy and glistening like spilled ink in the moonlight. One glowing amber eye glared haughtily down at the dark-haired Gryffindor. Crowley stood his ground, his own yellow eyes raised upward to return the stare, unblinking and unfazed. After a long moment, Crowley bowed, bending at the waist and keeping the connection between their eyes unbroken.

Aziraphale, looking on from afar, held his breath.

The hippogriff shook out its massive wings, causing its feathers to ripple and shimmer along its twelve-foot wingspan, and Aziraphale gasped in fear—but then it tucked them in again and bent its front knees, dipping into a bow. He let out his breath as Crowley carefully drew nearer to the creature. Slowly, gently, Crowley extended his arm and placed it on the hippogriff's forehead. He turned and beamed at Aziraphale, Adam, and Pepper, his elation evident in his grin.

Adam was practically dancing with eagerness at Aziraphale's side. "I wanna touch one too!" he declared. He and Pepper squealed in delight when Crowley motioned them towards him with one hand. They barely restrained themselves from sprinting to him, remembering his warning and keeping to a hurried walk. Aziraphale walked more slowly behind them. Crowley could plead as much as he liked, he thought to himself grimly, but there was no way _he_ was going to lock eyes with one of those perilous creatures, oh no; he was only following after Pepper and Adam so that he could try to prevent things from getting out of hand.

Crowley stepped back from the black hippogriff to meet them at the gate. "We should probably introduce you one at a time," he said softly; "who wants to go first?"

"I do!" Pepper and Adam proclaimed at the same time. They fixed each other with fiercer glares that Aziraphale would have believed eleven year olds were capable of making. He was certain Adam was going to win, but to his surprise, Adam backed down relatively quickly.

"Well, sure Pepper, you can go first," he magnanimously told the redhead.

With a flounce of her head that didn't quite manage to stir her closely cropped hair, she pranced forward.

"You saw what I did, right? Just stand still, and if one makes eye contact with you, don't look away, and don't blink," Crowley instructed softly behind her.

Pepper drew herself up to her full height, squared her shoulders, and moved her gaze from one hippogriff to the next, as if daring one to step forward. Aziraphale groaned inwardly: surely the proud creatures wouldn't appreciate such a defiant demeanor—but oh, look at that, one was stepping forward now.

It was the chestnut one, its feathers a lustrous reddish brown even in the faint light. It stared Pepper down, but she didn't shift her stance. She bowed shortly. It rolled its head, and Aziraphale could have sworn he saw amusement in its orange eyes as it bowed to the brash little Gryffindor. Pepper grinned widely and darted forward to sink her fingers into its feathers. Aziraphale almost lunged forward to pull her away, but the hippogriff seemed to enjoy it, deigning to let the young girl bury her face in its neck.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful in my whole life!" she called back delightedly to the others. Aziraphale smiled in spite of himself.

Adam went next. No sooner had he entered the paddock than a hippogriff stepped forward to receive him. It was, Aziraphale mused, the most regal looking of the group. Its orange eyes flickered like flame from the midst of plumage that glowed as though each feather had been dipped in molten bronze. Its horse's rear gleamed like copper, its glossy tail flicking languidly behind. Adam gazed up at it, and the boy and the hippogriff bowed in tandem. Then Adam marched up to it and stroked its steely gray beak, solemnity altering his youthful features. This seriousness did not last more than a moment, however; he soon turned his head to give Crowley a goofy grin.

Adam was practically glowing; happiness seemed to radiate from him in waves, affecting even Aziraphale's mood, though the Ravenclaw wouldn't have been able to articulate just how.

"Your turn, Az," Crowley said.

"Oh no, I couldn't," Aziraphale objected, but he found himself moving through the gate and into the paddock anyhow.

He stood there for a good half a minute, wondering if any of the hippogriffs were going to get on with it and peck his brains out already, when finally one advanced towards him from the back of the enclosure.

It was the smallest of the group—still alarmingly huge, Aziraphale noted as it loomed before him not three feet away—and both its feathers in front and coat behind were a pinkish roan. There was something gentler in its eyes than in those of the others, a serenity where its comrades displayed proud ferocity. Still, its beak looked just as sharp as any of them, and the talons on its front legs just as hooked and deadly.

Aziraphale couldn't help himself—this was ridiculous, absurd, foolhardy in the extreme!—he began backing away, but Crowley behind him hissed, "No! You've got to keep still now! And keep eye contact!"

At these words Aziraphale dutifully stopped moving, but muttered through gritted teeth, "It's bloody _hard_ to keep from blinking when one's trying _not_ to do it." Nevertheless, he managed to keep his eyes open and glued on the hippogriff's warm amber ones.

"Now go on, bow!" Crowley ordered from behind; stiffly, Aziraphale bowed, doing his best to ignore the voice in his head that was screaming for him not to expose the back of his neck to the hippogriff's lethal beak.

A tense moment passed; Aziraphale felt dizzy with fear, but then the hippogriff's knees bent and it lowered its head, returning his bow. Behind him, Pepper and Adam cheered. Aziraphale felt a triumphant thrill course through him: he had done it!

"There, I knew you could do it," came Crowley's voice, pride evident in it; and that alone made this whole endeavor worthwhile for Aziraphale.

As Crowley, Adam, and Pepper fussed over the hippogriffs, Aziraphale observed his friend, absentmindedly petting the roan hippogriff's soft flanks. He was thinking about that broom closet earlier that night, when Crowley had…when it had seemed as if…

No. It couldn't be. He'd only _imagined_ that Crowley was leaning towards him, surely; it had been dark after all, and he had been rather keyed up. He didn't for an instant think that Crowley was interested in, well, in _him_ , for instance. He chuckled self-deprecatingly for even entertaining the notion that anything had been about to happen in that closet.

There was Crowley talking animatedly to Pepper and Adam, sharing facts about hippogriffs, his golden eyes full of an excitement that Aziraphale didn't often get to witness in his friend. The hippogriffs were taking the two eleven year olds' enthusiasm very good-naturedly; they really weren't vicious, were they, when you weren't outright rude to them. Aziraphale actually began to hope that this reckless excursion would turn out all right after all.

The world could not, of course, allow him to entertain such an optimistic thought as that without setting out to prove him wrong.

The hippogriffs sensed them before the humans.

Pepper was pleading with Crowley to let her try to ride one when suddenly the hippogriffs grew restless. They tossed their heads, stomped their feet—front talons and back hooves—against the earth, and ruffled their wings fretfully. The hair on the back of Aziraphale's neck prickled as the roan hippogriff beside him made a noise between a screech and a nervous whinny.

"Whoa, steady there, steady!" Crowley said in as soothing a voice as he could manage as the black hippogriff reared up on its hind legs, clearly agitated. But his voice cracked on the last word. The air around them had suddenly gone from briskly cool to an icy cold that Aziraphale could feel in the base of his very spine, crawling up towards his brain. Their breath was visible, spouting from their lips in uneasy gusts of smoky vapor.

"Damn," Crowley murmured, in the same instant that Aziraphale whispered, "Fuck." They looked at each other, each seeing his own fear mirrored in the other's eyes.

The dementors drifted across the fields towards the paddock, six in number, murky figures much darker than the shadows from which they came. They seemed to be in no hurry, as though confident in their quarry's inability to escape.

Crowley and Aziraphale both pulled out their wands. Adam and Pepper followed suit, though heaven knew such weapons would be about as much use as twigs in their untrained hands.

Aziraphale whipped his head skyward as a deeper blackness fell across the night—no cloud enveloped the moon, yet its light was drowning in gloom, muted by the pall the dementors cast over everything.

Just as on the train to Hogwarts, images were forcing themselves on Aziraphale's mind, memories and sensations dredged up from further back than he'd known his memory went. Taunts of boys from his muggle primary school, calling him freak and bookworm and stealing his books, returning them with torn pages and cruel messages in the margins. Taunts of peers at Hogwarts his first year, before Crowley had befriended him and put a stop to the jeers of "son of a Squib!" News of his grandfather's death, his aunt's divorce, his parents' quarrels, financial worries. He felt a sudden pain slice through the numbness of his mind as the memory of a childhood injury resurfaced in vivid detail; he cried out and seized his wrist, half convinced it had broken again, releasing his wand in the process.

Wait, wand…where was his wand? He scrambled in the darkness, groping blindly for it. …Had to stop the dementors, had to protect Adam and Pepper, had to help Crowley…Crowley.

"Crowley?" he cried aloud, surprised to find his lips still able to move, and peered dazedly around for his friend. There was Adam, there was Pepper, holding on to each other and deathly pale in the blackness around them, but where…? Aziraphale spotted Crowley at last, kneeling in the grass beside the two children, his head in his arms, shielding his eyes and his ears. Aziraphale stumbled over, pulled at his friend's arm.

"Crowley, up you get, please Crowley, before a hippogriff tramples you…" Thankfully, Crowley responded to Aziraphale's insistent tugs, looking up blearily.

"Angel," he mumbled, staggering to his feet. Aziraphale started at the old nickname; Crowley had been using it less and less frequently over the years. It had a grounding effect on his mind, piercing through the haze of bad memories like a struck match briefly fighting off shadows.

Together, with Pepper and Adam, they looked around. The dementors were terribly near; what was keeping them from swooping down upon them?

The hippogriffs, Aziraphale realized. They were what was keeping the dementors at bay, forming a ring around the four humans in their midst. The dementors circled them, unsure how to penetrate this strange barricade of brutal beaks and outspread wings.

" _Angel_ ," Crowley repeated, more insistently this time, and Aziraphale looked where he was looking: not at the dementors or the hippogriffs, but at Adam. The air surrounding the boy was crackling with energy, his limbs and head haloed in greenish-golden light.

"Pepper," Aziraphale said, the realization of what was about to happen dawning slowly on his memory-fogged brain, "get away from him. Come on." She backed away from her fellow first year, and Aziraphale pulled her close.

There was a sound like a sonic boom, accompanied by a wave of light that swept over everything like a solid force. It knocked Aziraphale, Crowley, and Pepper into the not-so-cushiony flanks of a hippogriff. It rattled the hippogriffs themselves, who just barely managed to hold their ground. And it crashed into the dementors; they tumbled backwards like falling leaves assaulted by a powerful gale, and dispersed like so much smoke.

At the dementors' departure, the eerie muteness that had descended over the world was lifted, as was the preternatural eclipse of the moon. Clear white light shone down on the scene once more. It served almost as a spotlight, spilling across Adam, who was lying crumpled in the grass: the epicenter of the blast he'd caused.

Aziraphale scrambled towards the still figure. Crowley followed several seconds behind him, rubbing his eyes, which had been badly affected by the sudden wave of light.

Pepper was almost in tears beside her motionless peer. "Is he dead?" she asked, sniffling.

Aziraphale felt the boy's wrist* and found a pulse: fluttering, but very much present. "No, no, dear, he's alive." He looked over at Crowley. "But not well, I imagine. We ought to get him to Hagrid's to recover; he'll be in no shape to walk back to the castle when he comes to."

Crowley massaged his temples. "All right. But we can't tell Hagrid about the dementors. Or anyone else, for that matter."

"What? Crowley, surely you see that we _must_ inform Professor Dumbledore about their presence on the grounds!"

Crowley paced in the small space between hippogriffs, agitated. "I know, I know, but—no. Think it through, you know we can't. They're really serious about the curfew this year, you know they are. And you know I'm on thin ice already from the Incident last year.**"

"You should have thought of that before we embarked on this outrageous outing," Aziraphale said icily.

Crowley ran his hands through his hair, which was already terribly mussed. "How about this: we get Adam to Hagrid's for now, and discuss whether we'll tell Dumbledore tomorrow."

Crowley looked haggard in the moonlight, drained from the encounter with the dementors, and Aziraphale decided to let it go for the time being. "Fine. But I will be bringing it up again."

They went on either side of Adam, and each took an arm as Pepper looked on. She gave a whoop of joy when he stirred, blinking his eyes open.

"What'd I miss?" he asked groggily, offering them a weary, crooked grin.

"You saved us, I'd say," Crowley said.

"It was like there was magic inside you that just—just built up and blew up," Pepper informed him, spreading her hands wide to provide a visual as she said _blew up_ ; "it was wicked cool!"

On the way out of the paddock, Crowley patted the black hippogriff's neck with a appreciative "Thanks." The chestnut hippogriff allowed Pepper to bestow a kiss onto its lowered beak. Even Aziraphale threw the creatures a grateful look as they trudged away, with Adam supported between him and Crowley.

It was slow going: Adam was able to walk independently for some stretches, but had to lean against Aziraphale or Crowley every minute or so. Pepper was very quiet, and the spring in her step from earlier that evening had vanished. Crowley too did not speak, though that wasn't so unusual for him.

However, even such a grand display of accidental magic as he'd just performed didn't seem to be enough to exhaust Adam's desire to talk. Aziraphale noted this with astonishment as Adam looked up at Crowley after a few minutes and asked abruptly, "Why'd you call him Angel? You know, before."

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale and their eyes met for a brief second, before Crowley looked away again. "You get attacked by dementors and have some kind of magical seizure, and _that's_ the thing you wonder about?" Crowley replied, resigned exasperation in his tone.

"Well, why didja?"

"It's just a…name I have for him."

"Oh," Adam said, and there was a pause. Aziraphale assumed that was the end of that conversation, but then: "Can _I_ call him that?"

"No!" Aziraphale and Crowley said at the same time, a bit sharply.

"Okay, okay," Adam replied, and to both of the older students' relief he dropped the matter, focusing on moving one foot in front of the other.

Aziraphale's mind wandered back to his first year at Hogwarts as they walked--to a happy memory, not one of the dreadful ones the dementors had conjured up.

A few months of that first school year had passed, and while Aziraphale was absolutely in love with his classes, he had to admit that he was lonely and, occasionally, quite miserable. No one talked to him except to tease him. He'd made some attempts at making friends, but all had fallen through, and he'd resigned himself to his books.

It was a cool Saturday morning in autumn, and he'd decided to take a stroll to the lake to feed the ducks he'd seen there before. With rolls from breakfast in his schoolbag and an open book in his hands, he read as he walked, paying little attention to his path. Thus, he didn't notice that there was already someone at the lake till he'd almost run into him.

"Oh!" he'd exclaimed with a little start at the sight of the boy with longish black hair and sunglasses already tossing bread to the ducks. He recognized him from several classes: a fellow first year, from Gryffindor House, whom Aziraphale had never heard speak, except for the occasional snide comment. "Crowley, right?" he said awkwardly.

The youth looked up from the ducks and turned his shaded gaze to Aziraphale. "Yeah. Hi." He paused. "And you're…er…it starts with an A, right? …Angel?"

"Anchell," Aziraphale corrected him.

"Hmm. That's a shame," the Gryffindor replied with a careless shrug of his shoulders and an impish grin; "Angel sounds better, if you ask me. Fits you, somehow."

Aziraphale's reverie was cut off by their arrival at Hagrid's hut. They stumbled up to the doorway and knocked.

It took several moments for Hagrid to open it. He was dressed in what appeared to be his nightclothes: a shapeless off-white nightshirt extending well past his knees and a frayed pair of gargantuan pink slippers, each of which could easily have served as a cozy nest for a whole family of rabbits.

"Crowley? Aziraphale?" He peered bemusedly out at them. "What brings yeh here so late…?" He suddenly noticed Adam leaning against Crowley's side and a worried look came to his ruddy face behind his beard; he ushered them inside.

* * *

_Footnotes:_

*Something a wizard not raised among muggles would not have thought to do; being familiar with non-magical methods had its advantages.

**He was referring to a prank he and the Weasley twins had played pretending to be the monster from the Chamber of Secrets. It had seemed funny at the time, and it had been before any humans had been petrified, but, well, the professors hadn't been at all amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully Crowley’s unwillingness to report the dementors, and Aziraphale’s reluctant compliance (for now), seem in character. I think that Canon GO Crowley, being a demon, would not see the good in getting himself in trouble, and would be able convince himself that it’s not important information to share anyway. And then there’s Aziraphale, who in GO makes a show of playing by the rules but often allows Crowley to influence him, and seems to withhold information from his superiors in certain circumstances. I feel both of them often maintain various versions of “what they don’t know can’t hurt them.”
> 
> Also, I hope no one’s tired of dementors yet! I set this story in Harry’s third year because I find dementors fascinating, and I’m crossing my fingers that at least some of my readers agree.
> 
> (Oh, one last thing, on Aziraphale’s last name and an excuse to have Crowley call him Angel: no poking fun at it, pretty please, dear readers. Critique any other part of the story and I’ll be overjoyed to have something to fix, but I’m allowed my little bit of sentiment right here. I just really really love it when Crowley calls Aziraphale angel, okay? And so I’ve concocted the lamest justification ever for his usage of it in a universe in which Aziraphale is not a literal angel, and I’d be thankful if everyone would kindly turn a blind eye to its tackiness.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and Happy New Year!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm finally updating this thing after over a year! I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting, but life has kept me very busy this past year. I do hope my old readers return to finish the tale! Since I'm just about to begin my summer break, I should have plenty of time to keep posting chapters for the next few months, so I won't leave you all hanging again!
> 
> This chapter isn't the most thrilling, but some of the dialogue between Az and Crowley in the second half is important, so I hope you enjoy—and with any luck, I'll have another chapter uploaded sometime in this coming week!
> 
>  **Also, important note** : If you're an older reader returning to this fic and don't quite remember what was going on in it, but don't have the time/inclination to read through the first eight chapters again, allow me to provide a link to a chapter-by-chapter synopsis of all that is going on up to this point:  
> http://averygayace-in-space.tumblr.com/post/117467766386/since-im-about-to-update-ineffable-incantations

Loud, booming barks resounded behind Hagrid as he let the four students in. The source of the racket was an enormous boarhound, who came bounding from the bed in the corner to greet the newcomers. Adam, even in his exhausted state, whooped with delight at the sight of the dog.

"Tha's Fang," Hagrid told the first-year. "Feel free ter pet 'im, he won' bite."

Adam didn't need to be told twice. He opened his arms to receive the dog and was nearly bowled over, as Fang was almost twice his size.

"Lemme put some tea on," Hagrid told them after he had settled them down at the table, Fang slobbering into Adam's lap. He began bustling around in the kitchen area, pulling mugs out of a cabinet and stirring the fire.

"Actually, do you have any cocoa, Hagrid?" Aziraphale inquired. Crowley looked at him quizzically; he knew the Ravenclaw was very fond of cocoa, but he was never one to turn down a nice steaming cup of tea. Then Crowley recalled how much better he'd felt after consuming chocolate on the train: it was a natural remedy against the ill effects of the dementors. Cocoa likely wouldn't be quite so effective as a chocolate bar, but it was something.

"Sure I do," Hagrid said, and if he wondered at the question he didn't show it. A few minutes passed, quiet but for the sound of Hagrid preparing their drinks and Fang's pleased grunts as Adam and Pepper petted him. Crowley, with nothing else to do, looked idly around.

It was hard not to feel at home inside Hagrid's hut. Its single room was warmed by a crackling fire that cast soft shadows across the furniture, and though the rafters were laden with hams and pheasants* and the massive bed with its gaudy patchwork quilt took up a sizable portion of the limited floor space, it produced no claustrophobic feeling; rather, its crowdedness had an overall cozy effect. Moreover, the presence of the crossbow leaning in the corner was reassuring, not ominous. The dementors seemed like a bad fairytale, like shadowy figures from an old nightmare, when thought about from within the safe confines of Hagrid's hut.

"Now then, I 'spect you lot can give me a good excuse for bein' out so late," Hagrid said at last as he carried the bucket-sized mugs over to the table.

Crowley was glad the two first years were too distracted by hot chocolate and Fang to join in on the conversation, and Aziraphale kept true to his word not to mention the dementors. Together, they told as much of the truth as they could. They weren't _lying_ , exactly, Crowley thought to himself; they were simply leaving out certain portions of the truth. They admitted to having snuck out to visit the hippogriffs, and when it came time to recount Adam's magical explosion, Crowley described it in a way that made it sound as if the boy had simply gotten overexcited by the hippogriffs.

"Not ter say I advocate sneakin' out pas' curfew—I don't," Hagrid said sternly as Crowley and Aziraphale finished their account. Then his voice softened a bit. "But I can hardly blame yeh for wantin' ter see the hippogriffs." Hagrid turned to Adam. "An' yeh're feelin' better now, eh?" he asked kindly.

"Oh, yeah, I'm good now," Adam said distractedly, too busy scratching Fang behind the ears to put much focus into his response.

Aziraphale nudged Crowley and mimed sipping; Crowley realized he'd yet to drink his cocoa. He put the mug to his lips and took a large swig of the now-lukewarm liquid.

The effect was instantaneous. Warmth flowed down his throat and settled cozily in his stomach, where it proceeded to blossom out, until even his fingers and toes had thawed from that terrible, all-pervading cold that only dementors could cause.

"Thanks," he murmured to Aziraphale, but the Ravenclaw was not paying attention to him; rather, he was eyeing their host with worry on his face.

"Hagrid, are you doing all right?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley focused on the Hagrid's ruddy face and realized that it looked quite haggard behind its wild beard.

Hagrid waved the question away with one massive hand and did his best to maintain his cheery tone: "'Course I am, 'course I am! Do any of yeh wan' more cocoa?"

For the first time since entering the hut, Adam's attention had moved from the dog drooling all over his robes to gaze at Hagrid. His head tilted slightly to one side, he stated, "No, you're not all right, you're sad. You're real sad 'bout one of the hippogriffs."

The hut got quiet, but for the crackling of the flames and Fang's rhythmic breathing, as everyone stared at the little Gryffindor with the bright, almost unnervingly piercing eyes.

"It's Buckbeak," Hagrid finally huffed out in a hoarse voice. "I dunno if yeh've heard, bu' he attacked a student yesterday—didn' mean ter hurt him, but 'e scratched 'im up a bit. I'm worried it'll get 'im in a righ' spot o' trouble, an'…an'…" here Hagrid's composure slipped completely and he pulled a massive handkerchief from a pocket to dab at his suddenly teary eyes. "Buckbeak jus' don' deserve that, yeh know? He's a good boy, really. Bu' folks jus' don' see that, when it comes to big ol' creatures like 'im, they jus' don' see…"

Aziraphale, who was closest to the now blubbering groundskeeper, extended his hand to pat his gigantic, shaking shoulder. "There, there, Hagrid," he said awkwardly, "it'll be all right."

"Maybe everything will turn out just fine—Dumbledore should be able to help smooth things out, after all," Crowley chimed in, fishing for something reassuring to say. "You don't know yet that charges are even going to be pressed, do you?"

"No, no, yer right," Hagrid sniffed, looking up. "Harry an' Ron an' Hermione were sayin' the same thing las' night...Nothin's bin done yet, 's pointless to get all emotional 'bout it before anythin' bad has even happened, yeah?" He offered them all a watery grin, and gave a gargantuan sniff. "Bet you lot think I'm downrigh' silly, eh?"

"We don't think you're silly!" Pepper piped up, and Adam nodded earnestly beside her.

"All righ', well, I bes' get yeh back ter the castle, anyhow," Hagrid said, wiping his eyes one last time. "I'll walk yeh—it's dangerous to be out after dark these days, yeh know." Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged looks; if they hadn't known before tonight, they certainly did now.

"Can Fang walk with us too?" Adam asked eagerly, throwing his arms around the hound's neck.

"O' course," Hagrid replied.

Aziraphale admitted to Hagrid that they'd actually used a passage near the greenhouses to get outside, so they set off towards the greenhouses instead of the castle. As soon as they'd left the warmth of the hut for the cool night air, Fang bounded on ahead, and Adam and Pepper raced after him, laughing. The running eleven-year-olds soon left Crowley and Aziraphale a good ways behind. Hagrid walked a short distance behind the fifth-year pair, his crossbow slung casually across his shoulder. The rhythmic thud of his huge boots hitting the earth was strangely comforting to Crowley. Still somewhat on edge from their encounter with the dementors, he'd have been uneasy about having his back to the Forbidden Forest without the solid presence of the groundskeeper behind him.

Adam kept nearly tripping on his own robes as he ran, Crowley noticed with a grin. It always took the muggleborn first-years, accustomed to the trousers of the muggle world, a few weeks to get used to all the extra fabric billowing around their ankles.

Aziraphale looked in the direction that Crowley was smiling, and also took in the sight of Adam tripping over the hem of his robes. "Nice to see him acting like a normal child after all his, er, strangeness this evening, isn't it?" the Ravenclaw noted.

"Yeah," Crowley agreed. "There's something eerie about that kid. He doesn't mean to be, but something about him is just so…"

"Uncanny?" Aziraphale supplied.

"Exactly."

"It had occurred to me that possibly…no, never mind…"

"No, Angel, what?" Crowley prompted.

Aziraphale glanced behind his shoulder at Hagrid; the groundskeeper was gazing up at the stars as he walked, paying the students no mind. "Well, perhaps this was just me," Aziraphale said in muted tones, "but I almost felt like I could… _feel_ Adam's happiness, back with the hippogriffs, like waves—no, that sounds silly, I'm sure I was just imagining it."

"No, I know what you mean, I felt it too," Crowley quickly agreed. When Adam had approached his hippogriff, the little Gryffindor's exuberance _had_ seemed to radiate off him in waves, imbuing Crowley with more excitement than he'd already been feeling. "What about it?"

"Well, since dementors feed off happiness, I was wondering if possibly _they'd_ felt it? And that's what tempted them onto Hogwarts grounds?"

Crowley considered this. "It's as good a theory as any," he concluded. He studied Adam, who along with Pepper had caught up with Fang near the greenhouses; they were rolling around with the boarhound in the grass. At the moment, he looked like any eleven-year-old.

The two walked on quietly for a moment, Hagrid's weighty footfalls resounding behind them and the laughter of the two children growing louder as they neared them.

"Hey, Angel," Crowley said suddenly, thinking of something, "if it _was_ Adam's happiness that drew the dementors in, that means they're not likely to just, come back on the grounds again for no reason, right?"

Aziraphale thought this over for a moment. "Right…"

"So it really is senseless to go telling Dumbledore or anyone about what happened, right? It was an isolated incident, it won't happen to anyone else," Crowley reasoned. "We just tell Adam he's _got to stay inside_ after curfew and everything'll be fine!"

"…Yes, I suppose you're right." Aziraphale heaved a sigh. "You said it before, we _would_ get into quite a lot of trouble if we were to tell anyone. So if we can just keep tabs on Adam instead…"

"Brilliant," Crowley said as they reached to Adam and Pepper at last. Aziraphale had promised earlier not to bring news of the incident to a professor until they'd discussed it further, and that had suited Crowley well; he'd been confident in his own ability to think of some argument to keep the Ravenclaw from telling. And now it was all settled.

"The passage is right over there, Hagrid," Aziraphale said, pointing. "Thank you for walking us."

"Not at all," Hagrid replied; "but yeh all need to promise me yeh won' be sneakin' out like that again, all righ'?" he added sternly.

"We promise," said Adam and Pepper solemnly, and the two elder students hurried to follow suit.

"Good," Hagrid said. "Now no more trouble tonigh'—get on back to bed."

Adam and Pepper bade Fang a teary farewell. Then, as Hagrid made his way back across the grounds, a wide, sturdy silhouette with a narrow, canine one trotting beside it, the four students slipped one by one through the trapdoor of the passage.

" _Lumos_ ," Aziraphale and Crowley muttered as one.

" _Lumos_ ," the two first-years echoed back at them, so that two beams of steady white light brightened into four.

Being back in the dim, narrow tunnel winding its way back into the castle reminded Crowley of the comment he'd made when he'd hoisted his friend through the trapdoor some hours earlier.

"Hey Az, I don't know if you remember my comment for earlier, when I was helping you get through the trapdoor…"

"Oh, you mean when you told me, and I quote, to 'lay off the pumpkin pasties'?"

"…Yeah. That." Pepper and Adam giggled, and Crowley felt his face heat up. "Uh, sorry about that."

"Well, it's hardly the first time you've made a joke about my weight," Aziraphale said frostily, "and you've never seen a reason to apologize before now."

"Yeah, well…it's not very nice, I guess, so…" Crowley trailed off, his face decidedly hot now.

Aziraphale stopped walking, so that Crowley nearly bumped into him in the narrow passage. The Ravenclaw was giving him a searching look, prompting Crowley to cross his arms and defensively ask, "What?"

"Since when has being _nice_ meant two knuts to you?"

Crowley could feel his ears burning. "I just wanted to let you know there's nothing wrong with your weight is all," he said gruffly, and shouldered past his friend to catch up to Adam and Pepper, who had paused to wait for the two older students. "Go on, keep moving," he told them, ignoring their quizzical looks.

Once they'd made it to the end of the tunnel and reemerged in a castle corridor, they had to keep quiet. A glance at the Marauder's Map while shielding themselves behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy showed them that neither Filch nor Peeves was anywhere near them.

"That's a spot of luck, at least," Aziraphale sighed, and no one spoke again as they made their way along the corridors to the portrait of the Fat Lady.

She was fast asleep in her frame, hair curlers fastened to the painted swirls of her ringlets**, and Crowley had to repeat the password several times before she stirred.

"Out late, I see," she sniffed groggily, but she swung open to let them in.

"On you get," Crowley said to Pepper and Adam, who scampered through the frame and into the common room. "Right to bed, you two." Pepper turned to stick her tongue out at him before heading towards the dormitory tower, but she meant it good-naturedly, as far as Crowley could tell.

"Well, good night, Crowley," Aziraphale said, stifling a yawn. "Thanks for nearly getting us expelled for—how many times has it been now?"

"At least twenty, I'd say," Crowley answered with a smirk. "Anyways, don't say good night yet, I'm going to walk you to the Ravenclaw tower—without the map, you could run into Filch or someone, after all."

For the second time this evening, Aziraphale fixed his friend with a searching stare. "Really? You're finally deciding to fulfill the 'chivalrous' aspect of being a Gryffindor, are you?"

"Look," Crowley began, annoyed, "if you _want_ to get caught by Filch then go on ahead alone—"

"No," Aziraphale interrupted, "I'd…not mind the company. It's just rather odd, from you, you know."

"I don't see why you think it's so odd," Crowley grumbled, face heating up yet again; "We are _friends_ after all, angel—"

"That's another thing," Aziraphale exclaimed, loudly enough for the Fat Lady, who had swung back closed and was trying to sleep again, to shush him. In lower tones, he continued, "You're calling me 'angel' again, you haven't done that since third year—"

"Okay, y'know what? If I'm going to be _interrogated_ the whole time I walk you back, I change my mind," Crowley snapped. "You take this," he shoved the map into the Ravenclaw's arms, "and get yourself back to Ravenclaw tower, all right? _I'm_ going to bed, Ang— _Anchell._ " Redder than ever at almost using the old nickname again, he caught himself just in time and switched to Aziraphale's surname.

"Really dear, there's no need to get so worked up, I was simply asking—"

"Fortuna major."

"I—what?"

"Fortuna major," Crowley repeated a little louder, and the Fat Lady's portrait swung open for a second time as she grumbled sleepily. He climbed in to the Gryffindor common room, throwing a quick "See you around, Aziraphale" over his shoulder. Just as the frame swung shut, he caught a glimpse of the hurt look on the Ravenclaw's face, and had to suppress a pang of guilt. Eh, well, he'd make it up to Aziraphale tomorrow. For now, burning with embarrassment and exasperated with himself, it was best to simply call it a night.

 _Git_ , he reproached himself as he climbed the winding stairs of his dormitory tower. He was acting strange enough around Aziraphale that it was obvious even to the normally-oblivious Ravenclaw that something was off, which meant that Crowley could no longer pretend to himself that he didn't have a problem. He did, undeniably, fancy Aziraphale—and he had to put a stop to it.

He needed rules for himself. All right: no more calling him "angel," that was a good start. And no more being uncharacteristically nice, Crowley decided; he had to treat Aziraphale like he always had. Apparently late-night strolls through secluded corridors was not something the old Crowley—the devil-may-care, _un_ infatuated Crowley—would suggest, so none of that either.

He opened the door to the fifth-year boys' dormitory as quietly as he could and slipped inside. One of his peers was still awake, the scarcely-visible beam of a candle glowing through the thick curtains of one of the four-poster beds. Crowley could hear the gentle scratch of a quill on parchment, which stopped as Lee Jordan's head peeped out from behind the curtains.

"Oy, Crowley!" Lee said in way of greeting, his voice hushed so as not to wake the other members of the room. "Out a bit late, aren't you? Where were you?"

"Why, I don't know what you could mean," Crowley responded innocently; "I was in the common room this whole time. What, are you accusing _me_ of stepping out past curfew?"

Lee smirked at him. "Oh no, not goody-two-shoes Crowley," he joked. "Don't tell me where you were then, we're all entitled to our secrets—but if I hear that any mischief took place last night at breakfast, I'm gonna know it was you." He winked, and with a shake of his dreadlocks retreated back behind his four-poster's hangings.

Crowley kicked his shoes off beside his own bed and stripped from his robe; too tired to bother undressing completely, however, he slid into bed with his trousers and shirt still on. He was suddenly feeling very drained.

His last thoughts as he slowly drifted off were of his friend, making his way back to Ravenclaw tower on his own. Nip this bloody infatuation in the bud, that's what he had to do, Crowley though to himself drowsily. Then all could be like normal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Some of the hams and pheasants dangled down low enough from the rafters to pose quite a risk for their very tall owner; just after letting the four students in, for instance, Hagrid had taken a particularly low-hanging ham to the face.
> 
> **No one was quite sure where the Fat Lady had acquired said curlers – the artist certainly hadn't painted them on her – or even why painted-on ringlets would need curlers to keep their curl, but every evening she could be seen to be wearing them without fail.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wensley and Brian are introduced, and Pepper gets to chat with Anathema.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a brief chapter, but I hope you all like it, I had fun writing it! Please feel free to leave suggestions or critique as comments -- I love taking what my dear readers have to say into consideration as I continue the story! Thanks ^^

When Crowley sauntered into the Great Hall the next day for what most students called lunch but he considered breakfast,* he didn't think anything of Aziraphale's absence from the Ravenclaw table. His friend often spent his Saturdays lost in a book or completing assignments in the library, so that he tended to lose track of time and miss meals, much to his own dismay. Crowley made a mental note to stuff an apple and some rolls in his bag before leaving the Hall—he knew how grumpy Aziraphale could get when he didn't eat.

He glanced around for any of his other friends, but there was no sign of Newt, Anathema, or the twins, so he settled down on an empty bench at the Gryffindor table to eat in solitude.

Loading his plate with mashed potato, peas, and a few chicken legs, Crowley was only able to enjoy several bites before four short figures plopped down on the bench, two on either side of him.

He glanced to his left: a pair of first-year Hufflepuffs he didn't know. One's dark hair and robes gave off an air of permanent dishevelment, and the other (significantly tidier) one blinked up at him through thick, square black frames with wise-looking eyes that would have better fit an ancient sage than an eleven year old child.

He glanced to his right: Adam and Pepper, naturally. He rolled his eyes toward the cloudy skies of the enchanted ceiling from behind his sunglasses. "Merlin give me strength," he muttered under his breath, then turned to Adam and Pepper.

"Do I look like a daycare service or something?" he grumbled. "You _can_ pick seats that aren't next to me, you know. And you two," he added to the pair to his left, "see the yellow on your robes? That matches—can you guess—the yellow banners above that table over there. So why don't you go on and join your house now?"

"I've only got here two days ago," the bespectacled first-year replied, "but the more I see of inter-house in'eractions, the more corroborates my feelings that this house system is at least somewhat rubbish."

Crowley gaped at him a moment. Then he whirled to his left to address Adam: "Okay, what first-year knows the word 'corroborate'?" Adam shrugged, while Pepper had her freckled nose scrunched up, looking like she was trying to figure out what such a big word could possibly mean.

"Also," the perplexing little Hufflepuff added, so that Crowley had to turn his head back to him,** "I've already seen you with members of all four houses, not just Gryffindors, so I can bet you agree with me that the house divisions don't really mean all that much."

"...Right," was all Crowley could think to reply.

"These," Adam broke in brightly, "are Wensley and Brian."

"Adam and I met them in Charms yesterday and now we're all real good friends," Pepper chimed in.

"Yeah!" the dark-haired Hufflepuff agreed enthusiastically, his mouth full of pastry, spilling powered sugar all down his robes. "But not till af'er Professor Flitwick saved me from Pepper."

"I had Brian in a real good headlock," Pepper agreed proudly. "No way he'd a got out of it without Flitwick magicin' us apart!"

"It was so cool," Brian said. "There was this flash o' real bright light and it was like two magnets when you try an' connect'em the wrong way—we jus' sorta, rocketed apart!" He brought his hands together and threw them apart to demonstrate, causing the pastry he was still holding to shower powdered sugar all over Wensley's hair beside him.

"What did he do to deserve a headlock?" Crowley asked the fiery-haired little Gryffindor curiously.

"He asked me why I was wearin' trousers when girls are s'posed to wear skirts," Pepper answered. "I told 'im you won't catch me wearin' any skirts—they're sexist," she declared.

"What's this about skirts being sexist?" a cool voice broke in as Anathema appeared, seating herself across from Crowley and his gaggle of first-years. There were a few boos and protests from a little further down the table; Gryffindors didn't take kindly to Slytherins invading their table. Anathema ignored them, focusing on the first-years surrounding Crowley instead. "Seems like you've got yourself quite a fan club, Crowley," she noted, before turning her attention on Pepper.

"Men use skirts to oppress women," Pepper explained. "They were invented to keep us from bein' able to run an' hunt an' do other active stuff. That's what my mum says."

"Hmm...I'm not sure about how accurate that history is, but even if that is true, why should that stop anyone who wants to wear skirts from wearing them?" Anathema asked, her sharp gaze holding the younger girl's green eyes. "If men really do mean for skirts to keep women tied down, wouldn't that make wearing one and being just as successful as they are...subversive?"

Pepper had look of someone hit by a surprise stunning spell. "Oh...well…they're still too girly for me," she finally said, but she looked thoughtful.

"And what's wrong with girly?" Anathema queried.

"I...don't know..." Pepper said slowly.

Crowley was hardly paying attention to this exchange, taking the opportunity to shovel down his food. But he whipped his head up as suddenly a chicken leg whizzed through the air, heading straight for Anathema's face.

Before Crowley could blink once, however, the missile had stopped dead in midair, a half a yard away from its target. Anathema had her wand out, pointed at the immobilized hunk of meat. With a lazy flick of her wrist, she sent it whistling back the way it had come, nailing the Gryffindor who'd thrown it her way square in the chest.

"Oomph!" he exhaled, almost falling off the bench.

"Aw, come on!" his friends exclaimed angrily. "Get back to your own table, Slytherin!" one of them jeered.

"I don't think I'm wanted here, sorry Crowley. See you later. Kids," she nodded at the four first-years, and came to a focus on Adam. "Ah, Adam Young," she stated, giving him an appraising stare. "It's so nice to meet you after so long."

"Er…" Adam said, looking utterly nonplussed. "Nice to meet you, too…"

"Anathema."

"Anathema," he repeated solemnly, trying out the strange name on his tongue.

The fifth-year witch rose from the table and turned to head to the Slytherin table, the fabric of her gray skirt swaying as she walked away. Pepper watched her go, looking star-struck.

"Wow," she breathed. "I wanna…I wanna be like her!" Crowley snorted. Anathema often had such an effect on those who first met her. Then he thought of something he'd wanted to ask her.

"Oi, Anathema, wait a moment!"

The Slytherin's silky sheet of black hair swished as she turned back around. "Yeah?"

"Have you seen Aziraphale today?"

"At breakfast, yes," she replied, taking a few steps back toward the table so she wouldn't have to shout. "His aura seemed cloudy, and he was more terse than usual; you wouldn't know why, would you?"

"No," Crowley replied, puzzled.

"No? Well, if you say so…" Anathema turned once more to walk away.

Suddenly his stomach dropped as he realized he did have a good idea why. The memory of his last exchange with the Ravenclaw flooded back into his brain, and he grimaced. He'd been rude to Aziraphale last night, offering to walk him to his dormitory and then leaving him alone. Oh, and he'd snapped at him a good bit first. Aziraphale was probably upset about that.

He sighed; Aziraphale frequently treated Crowley brusquely, and Crowley simply took it in stride. It wouldn't have been out of character for the Ravenclaw to leave Crowley suddenly, and indeed he had done so countless times—rushing away with the recollection of an assignment unfinished, or as a way to express disapproval at one of the Gryffindor's pranks. He snapped at Crowley pretty often, too. Why was it all right for Aziraphale to be a bit rude, but if Crowley offended his admittedly rather stuffy friend, it meant being treated to the cold shoulder for days?

"Is Aziraphale the one with the dark curly hair and the glasses?" A voice startled Crowley from his thoughts.

"Huh?" He looked to the source of the voice—it was the Hufflepuff who looked too old for his age, Wensley. "Yeah, that's Aziraphale, have you seen him?"

"He and the tall one were playin' chess in the Hufflepuff common room when Brian and I left it a little while ago," Wensley informed him. "Only it was some sort of magical chess, the pieces moved, I wanted to stay an' watch but _Brian_ was hungry."

"I can't _help_ bein' hungry, Wensley," Brian retorted defensively. "We can go back an' watch 'em _now_."

"I'll come with you," Crowley told them.

He gathered some food into a napkin for Aziraphale—tucking a sizable piece of pie in among the apple and rolls, figuring it would make a good peace offering if Aziraphale really was upset with him—and rose from the table to leave.

Passing the Slytherin table, he saw that Anathema had seated herself at the end furthest from that third-year prat, Draco Malfoy, whom she detested. She was chatting with a few of her fellow fifth-years. Draco, nearer to the Hall's exit, was surrounded by his usual retinue of third-years. His arm was in a sling, Crowley assumed from his incident with Buckbeak the Hippogriff, and Pansy Parkinson was fawning over him like some sort of war hero. Ugh. Crowley made a mental note to brainstorm some nasty pranks to play on the blond-haired little git at the nearest opportunity, and followed the pair of first-year Hufflepuffs out of the Hall.

* * *

 

 _Footnotes_ :  
  
*Sleeping was one of Crowley's favorite pastimes, and he often spent entire Saturdays curled up in bed; getting up by noon was actually early for him.  
  
**He was bound to get whiplash from turning his head from his left to his right to his left again so much; why did these little imps have to sit on either side of him?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Az and Crow have a little falling-out, War is introduced, and a boggart is fought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say some events of this chapter deviate further from Rowling's canon than any other chapter so far—mainly when it comes to timeframes, though, which Rowling herself does not seem to have worried too much about (try looking up schedules for Harry's third year, or any year, and you'll see how difficult it is to determine what days certain things happen on). Hopefully you can all forgive me for altering the scheduling of things, as readers seem to give Rowling a free pass on such continuity errors. Another deviation comes from Lupin giving the fifth-years a chance to face the boggart, which could have happened, but I doubt actually did—still, since it served my purposes and, I think, turned out pretty interesting, I hope you all don't mind.
> 
> Oh, and sorry in advance for the awful ANGST in this thing; I promise it'll be resolved soon because I personally just can't stand too much angst and would much rather go back to happy untroubled friendship, thank you very much.

"Bishop to e thr- _OH_!" Aziraphale's command to his chess piece was interrupted by his surprised exclamation as a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

The bishop peered up at Aziraphale from its little square on the board, rubbing its onyx head in confusion.

"E _three_ , e _three_ , go on," Aziraphale told it impatiently, motioning it along, and then turned to glare reproachfully at the person who'd startled him—it was Crowley, as he'd expected. Next to him, two tiny Hufflepuffs were looking at the chessboard interestedly. "Crowley, if you don't stop sneaking up on me—"

"I didn't mean to, Az!" Crowley interrupted, and he had the good grace to look sheepish. "Sorry."

"Well all right then," Aziraphale said briskly. "What do you want?"

"What do I…er, oh, I've brought you some food!" Crowley said, digging around in his bag and producing a lumpy bundle. "You've missed lunch, as usual, if you hadn't noticed."

"Oh!" Aziraphale gasped, glancing at his watch. He now turned his reproachful look across the chess table to the overstuffed yellow and black armchair where Newt was sitting, his long, gangly legs folded under himself. "Why didn't you tell me we were missing lunch?" he demanded.

"I _tried_ to!" Newt protested. "I kept saying we should head to the Great Hall soon and you kept shushing me!"

"Ah." So that's what the Hufflepuff had been trying to say. Well, it wasn't _his_ fault if Newt only picked moments to speak up right when Aziraphale was strategizing his next move.

"So, do you want it?" Crowley asked, offering Aziraphale the bundle of food.

Aziraphale considered it; it was certainly tempting. But he thought about how Crowley had treated him last night and steeled himself to resist. "No, thank you," he said breezily. "Newt, it's your move."

"Huh?" Newt responded, startled; he and Crowley were both gaping at their Ravenclaw friend, who'd never been one to pass up food. "Oh, right. Uh, knight to c 6."

"Oh come on, Az, I know you're hungry," Crowley wheedled, working to unknot the bundle.

"I'm not," the Ravenclaw answered testily. Crowley had gotten the napkin untied and Aziraphale caught a whiff of the disclosed slice of pie, making resistance even more challenging. Just then, to his chagrin, his stomach gave an almighty rumble.

Crowley looked at him pointedly. "You're not?"

" _No_ ," Aziraphale answered heatedly, and stood up from the chess table. "I'm sorry, Newton, but this game will have to wait for a later time, I have to go…study." He shouldered past Crowley, nearly bowling over the two little Hufflepuffs at the Gryffindor's side, both of whom were looking immensely disappointed to see the game end.

"Er, do you two want me to teach you how to play?" he heard Newt ask them, followed by enthusiastic cries of "Yeah!" and "Yes please!" from the pair of first-years.*

"Az, wait!" Crowley called after him, but he made his way from the cozy gold light of the Hufflepuff common room into the tunnel leading out of it without slowing. "Aziraphale, seriously!" Crowley complained behind him. "I know you're mad about last night—can't we talk a minute?" Aziraphale continued to ignore his friend, passing through the framed fruit still-life that served as an entrance to the common room. "Az—" He weaved his way around the barrels piled up in front of it—and was stopped from continuing down the corridor and up out of the basement by a hand grabbing his.

For a breathless instant, the two of them stood frozen. The sunlight pouring down through the corridor's high circular windows seemed to shine a spotlight on Crowley's hand wrapped around Aziraphale's. Then Crowley yanked his hand away.

"I, uh, I just wanted to ask if you had the Map," the Gryffindor said quickly, self-consciously shoving the hand that had clasped Aziraphale's into one pocket of his robes.

Aziraphale, his face hot and heart pounding infuriatingly fast, thrust his hand in his bag and pulled out a piece of blank parchment, extending it towards Crowley. He hoped his face didn't look as red as it felt. "Is that all you wanted?" he asked, his voice breaking a little at the sentence's beginning.

Crowley paused, as if about to say more, but all he said was, "Yeah, that was it."

"Fine. Well, bye," Aziraphale said stiffly, and whirled away, hurrying up the stairs to the castle's ground floor so quickly he almost tripped on the top step.

Aziraphale did his best to avoid Crowley for the rest of the weekend. He spent Saturday afternoon in Ravenclaw tower, studying, and arrived late to dinner so that he wouldn't run into Crowley while heading to his table.** He spent most of Sunday, then, holed up in a hidden nook of the library, finishing the potions essay he'd been assigned and getting started on his work for Arithmancy. At Sunday's dinner, he nearly ran into Crowley when entering the Great Hall, but maneuvered out of the way just in time, quickly avoiding eye contact by pretending to be very fixated on the sunset-streaked enchanted ceiling. Crowley, thankfully, did not attempt to talk to him, hurrying to his own table instead with his head down—he knew better by this point than to bother trying to reason with Aziraphale when the Ravenclaw was set on giving him the cold shoulder.

On Monday morning at breakfast, Aziraphale's stomach twisted up on itself when he suddenly realized that he had Herbology with Crowley. Exiting the Great Hall earlier than he needed to, he trekked across the grounds alone, reading a book as he walked and steeling himself for the encounter. He was the first to arrive in the greenhouse, and sat down in a corner seat across the room from Crowley's customary table. He immersed himself in his book as the minutes passed and students began to trickle in.

"Any particular reason you're sitting in my spot, sweetheart?" A voice like a honeyed blade sliced through Aziraphale's concentration; he looked up from his reading.

Standing before him, hand on her hip and stance thrown wide, long auburn tresses glinting flame-like in the sunlight filtering through the greenhouse glass, was Scarlett Zuigiber. Meeting the almost-predatory gaze her startlingly orange eyes were fixing on him, Aziraphale felt the tension already present in his stomach triple; he'd always felt exquisitely uneasy around the red-haired*** Gryffindor.

"I'm terribly sorry, I can move if you like, but I was wondering—"

"If you could join my table?" she finished for him, curving her deep red lips into a smile that offered him just a glimpse of the lustrously white teeth behind them. "Prefer not to sit with your friend today then? Whatever for?" she asked, every word curling luxuriously from behind her smile.

"It's nothing," Aziraphale said tightly, "we simply…aren't speaking today. So yes, do you mind if I work with you?"

"Delicious," Scarlett murmured to herself in a way that made Aziraphale's spine tingle unnervingly. "Be my guest, sweetheart."

Aziraphale wasn't particularly thrilled to be working with Scarlett and the two other students who joined their table. As they fed carrots and other vegetables to Chinese Chomping Cabbages, Aziraphale and Scarlett both worked quietly as their two tablemates squabbled endlessly, to Aziraphale's annoyance. Couldn't they just shut up? He was feeling extremely tense, which he chalked up to the glances Crowley kept throwing his way, and which he had to work to avoid. What with his tablemates' increasingly malicious bickering and trying not to think about Crowley, he could scarcely concentrate on not getting his fingers chomped off by the insatiable cabbages.

It was a relief to escape Herbology at last and head to lunch; all he had that afternoon was a free period and then Study of Ancient Runes with Anathema****.

At breakfast the next day, he sat near the other Ravenclaw fifth-years, reading a book as he sipped his tea. He tuned into their conversation when he heard Defense Against the Dark Arts, the class they had next, mentioned.

"Yeah, a boggart, that's right!" one of them, Roger Davies, was saying. "He had the third-years face it and it turned into all sorts of nasty things—whatever you fear most, apparently."

"That sounds dreadful," another responded, looking nervous.

"No, no, it's really awesome," Davies assured her; "it means we've finally got a Defense teacher who knows what he's doing!"

"Here's hoping he'll let us fight it too," the third one said. "If it means no boring lecture, or reading from the textbook, it doesn't sound too bad to me."

Aziraphale scoffed. "You'd rather face your darkest fear than read a book?"

"Well, yeah," his fellow fifth-year replied, as if the answer were obvious.

"Humph," was Aziraphale's only response to that.

As the other fifth-years got up to head to class, he followed behind them, mulling it over. What would the boggart turn into for him? He didn't like to think about it.

He only remembered that this was another class he shared with Crowley when he arrived at the classroom and saw his friend sitting at a desk in the back, conversing animatedly with Fred and George. He sighed and made his way to the very front. Like the other students, he didn't bother taking his textbooks or quill from his bag; if the rumors were correct, this would be a hands-on lesson.

In front of the blackboard stood a large, mahogany wardrobe. The students murmured to one another as they filed in, eyeing the wardrobe apprehensively. "Boggart must be in there," Davies said from Aziraphale's right.

Suddenly, the doorknob of the wardrobe rattled, causing the whole class to gasp and jump. "It is, it is in there!" someone exclaimed anxiously from the back of the room. The whole class quieted, staring fretfully at the wardrobe as one, as if their combined willpower could keep the boggart locked up safely within it.

Professor Lupin slipped into the classroom just as the hour struck and made his way to the front desk, where he set down his battered briefcase. His entire outfit was decidedly in need of an update, his robes threadbare and faded, but the smile he offered the class was genuine.

"Good morning. I take it you have all heard about the more practical nature of my class," he said, observing their clear desks. "Very good. Wands out, if you haven't got them out already, and please assist me in moving the desks against the walls."

The scrape of desk and chair legs against the floor filled the room for a minute as they obliged him. When all was quiet again and a space cleared in the center of the room, Lupin spoke again.

"Form a semicircle around the wardrobe, if you please." They did so, Aziraphale taking care to keep far from Crowley. "If I know this old school's rumor mill well, I think I'm right in assuming news has reached you of what I have in store for you today?"

"A boggart, sir!" Angelina Johnson, one of the Gryffindor girls, answered.

"Very good, Angelina. Now, who can tell me what a boggart is, and what it is they do?"

Aziraphale raised his hand and answered, "Boggarts are shape-shifters. They can shape themselves into whatever form will scare their target most."

"Well put, thank you," Lupin told Aziraphale. "So, what do you all suppose the boggart looks like currently, sitting alone in the dark, closed wardrobe?"

There was silence. A few people shuffled their feet, and Lupin spoke again.

"That was a trick question, I suppose—the answer is, nobody knows. However, when I free him, he will immediately assume the shape of one of our deepest fears," Lupin explained. "The charm we use to dispel a boggart is _Riddikulus_ , but the spell alone will not finish him. Rather, what truly ends a boggart is _laughter_ —Scarlett, would you be so kind as to assist me? What do you fear most?"

If Scarlett was startled at being addressed, her orange eyes gave no sign. "Nothing, Professor," she answered silkily.

"Nothing?" Lupin repeated. "Well, I've yet to see a boggart fail to assume a shape, so this should prove interesting. Are you sure you fear…nothing?"

"What I mean, Professor," Scarlett clarified, a dangerous smile playing on her dark red lips, "is that what I'd say I hate most is…nothingness. Silence."

"Ah," Lupin said. "In that case, I admit I'm not entirely sure what form 'silence' will appear as, but how about this? Whatever it is, fill it with _sound_. The way you combat a boggart," he announced to the class at large, "is to force it into a shape that amuses you because, as I said before, laughter is what defeats a boggart. Therefore, Scarlet, I advise you to think of a laughable sound—have you got one? Yes? Hold it in your mind, concentrate on it, point your wand, and cry _'Riddikulus'_ to channel that sound into the boggart's form." To everyone else, he said, "Once Scarlett does this, the boggart will focus on another target. I would like you all to prepare—think of what frightens you most, and imagine a way to make it comical."

Aziraphale strained his brain. A few ideas flashed through his mind, but the one that kept returning was a thought: being expelled. Being told he had to leave Hogwarts and return to his family in the Muggle world, his wand snapped in half, never to perform another spell again, or see his friends again.

But how could he make that humorous?...

"Are you all ready?" Lupin asked. Students nodded, and Aziraphale tightened his grip on his wand. "All right, everyone but Scarlett back up please. Scarlett, I am going to open the door, so have your thought at the ready! On the count of three, Scarlett. One—two—three— _now_!"

Lupin aimed his wand at the wardrobe's doorknob; with a spray of sparks, the door sprang open, revealing…outer space.

Space, deepest black and star-strewn, spilled out from the confines of the wardrobe. Leisurely, sinuously, soundlessly, it swathed Scarlett in a nebula of silence.

Aziraphale found he was holding his breath. The entire classroom was deathly still as everyone strained to see their classmate through the sheet of blackness. It was…beautiful, really. Achingly, infinitely beautiful. He could just make out the Gryffindor girl's flaming hair through the darkness, and the stars that ringed around her sparkled enticingly. But—not unlike Scarlett herself—there was something _dangerous_ about its beauty, something deeply, primordially threatening about a void so deep, so that he was thankful to be looking at it from the outside, rather than enveloped in the heart of it.

Scarlett aimed her wand on one point among the stars, and the scythe of her voice sliced through the hush. " _Riddikulus_!"

The sheet of blackness twisted and shriveled with the sound of a deflating whoopee cushion, causing most of the class to explode into laughter. Aziraphale did not so much as crack a smile—he was too mature to find the sound of flatulence _funny_ , obviously.

The vista of space rolled into itself, elongated, and reformed directly in front of Aziraphale, to his alarm. Albus Dumbledore himself suddenly stood before him, a sterner look on his face behind his half-moon spectacles than the Ravenclaw had ever seen. He was holding out a letter towards Aziraphale, motioning for him to take it. One word stood out on the page, in bright red ink: _Expelled_.

Aziraphale let out a little shriek, and clutched his wand more firmly—they would _not_ take it from him! He wouldn't let them snap it in half, he would—no, wait, what was he thinking? This was not Dumbledore, he was not expelled, this was a boggart…

" _Riddikulus!"_ he cried, and suddenly the headmaster's robes were replaced by a tie-dye shirt, his long white beard woven through with flowers, and in place of an expulsion letter he held a sign that said "Peace Not War"—Aziraphale realized that his imagination had modeled this new get-up after a muggle man he'd once seen in Soho with his mum who had, indeed, looked remarkably like Dumbledore. He let out a shaky laugh.

The boggart shifted again, morphing into an angry looking woman who rounded on Alicia Spinnet. The woman, her face scrunched up into a cruel grimace, began berating the Gryffindor, until Alicia's cry of " _Riddikulus_!" shrunk her down into a baby, wearing a nappy and sucking on a pacifier.

The baby disintegrated into a stream of cockroaches, causing several students to squeal. The cockroaches scurried towards Roger Davies, who shouted " _Riddikulus!_ " and turned them into a bunch of marbles that rolled every which way across the floor.

The marbles coalesced into what appeared to be a bar of soap, then a severed ear, then a vicious looking dog. "It's confused!" Lupin exclaimed. "Keep going, we almost have it—Crowley, you take a turn!"

Aziraphale watched as Crowley stepped forward hesitantly, standing in front of the growling dog, which shivered, twisted, and transformed itself into—

It took Aziraphale a moment to process the body that lay spread out on the ground. It had dark curls, lopsided glasses over open, unseeing eyes, and Ravenclaw robes…him. It was him.

Crowley's boggart was the corpse of Aziraphale.

 

* * *

 

 

_Footnotes:_

*Newt's impromptu chess lesson did not go exactly smoothly. After explaining the rules, he put the two first-years in a team against him. With each turn, Brian kept blurting out the first move he noticed, while Wensley wanted to carefully think through every possible scenario, causing them to bicker over every turn—"Why do you have to take _hours_ for every move, Wensley?" "Do you want to win this or not, Brian?" To make matters even more difficult, they were using Aziraphale's chess pieces, which had adopted the stuffy attitude of their owner and didn't take kindly to being ordered about by a couple of eleven-year-olds. They tapped their stone feet against the board and pointed their noses towards the common room's low ceiling haughtily, having to be commanded repeatedly before they'd finally acquiesce to move.

**His stomach was grumbling like a peeved dragon by that point. As soon as he'd sat down between two other Ravenclaws, he began shoveling down food like he hadn't eaten in a week, prompting a ghost floating by to murmur "Slow down, sonny." Aziraphale almost choked on his mouthful of roast beef at the sudden voice.

***There really was a baffling number of redheads in Gryffindor house; one might almost wonder if the Sorting Hat simply declared "Gryffindor" every time it was placed atop ginger locks.

****She attempted multiple times throughout the class period to bring up his current conflict with Crowley, but Aziraphale ignored her each time, feigning excessive interest in Professor Babbling's lecture until she gave up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be annoying, but don't forget that feedback is always super appreciated! I love suggestions for improvement, or ideas for what I can include next, so share away!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sure where all of this ridiculous fluff came from...I guess I felt bad for all the angst I left you with, so now enjoy some over-the-top sappiness!

Crowley stared down into the wide, unseeing eyes of his best friend and felt his wand slip from his fingers. He sank to his knees, unable to keep himself upright.

It wasn't really Aziraphale, he _knew_ it wasn't really Aziraphale, and yet…and yet…

"Crowley. Crowley! Look at me, look, I'm right here, _look_ —"

His head was yanked upward by two warm, soft hands, forcing his stare from lifeless, vacant eyes to the earnest, tear-filled eyes of the real Aziraphale.

"A-Angel," he murmured reflexively, catching on to his friend's gaze like a lifeline.

"Yes, yes, it's me, I'm right here," the Ravenclaw assured him urgently. "Now let's move out of the way for Professor Lupin."

Crowley allowed Aziraphale to more or less drag him away from the boggart; the other students moved to let them through. He heard Lupin exclaim, " _Riddikulus!"_ , heard the wardrobe door slam shut and the _click_ of its lock being turned, but he couldn't bear to tear his eyes from Aziraphale just yet to watch what was going on.

"Aziraphale, Anthony, please stay behind a moment—the rest of you may leave," Lupin was saying, attempting to keep an air of control in his voice. "Oh yes—five points to everyone who faced the boggart, and my apologies to those of you who didn't get the chance. I'll make it up to you at our next lesson."

Crowley finally looked away from Aziraphale for long enough to watch their classmates file out of the room. A few of them glanced back as they left, expressions either confused or sympathetic. The last student exited and closed the door behind them, leaving the classroom quiet.

The spot where the boggart had taken the form of Aziraphale's corpse was empty, and the wardrobe in which it was confined once more was still, giving no sign of the prisoner within. Crowley realized he was clinging tightly to his Aziraphale's arm, but did not move to unclasp it; he was so shaky that he feared letting go would cause him to collapse. He could feel his friend trembling underneath his touch as well, and didn't blame him—seeing yourself dead on the floor was probably even more unnerving than seeing a friend dead.

"Why don't you two get into seats?" Lupin suggested. "You'll be more comfortable, I'm sure."

Aziraphale helped Crowley up from the floor and into one of the desks' chairs, which were all still pushed against the walls. Their professor likewise sank into a chair, looking weary.

"Now, I admit I am not sure what you two need," Lupin said, "but I would like to help you both in any way I can. Boggarts are formidable foes, and first things first, I don't want you to feel like you are weak, or that you failed, because of your reaction to your boggart, Anthony."

"Crowley," Aziraphale interjected. "Er, he goes by Crowley, Professor."

Lupin smiled slightly. "My mistake. Crowley. How do you feel about what just happened?"

"It's fine, Professor," Crowley managed to say, working around the lump in his throat. "I'm fine—or I will be in a few minutes."

Lupin gave Crowley a look that said he didn't quite believe him.

"Really," Crowley insisted. He paused, then added, "Sorry I disrupted the class."

"It's quite all right, Crowley, and absolutely not your fault," Lupin assured him. "Now, I want you to answer me honestly: would talking things over with me help, or would you both prefer that I left you to discuss it alone?"

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who was studying him worriedly.

"I don't see much use in discussing it, no," Crowley said, aiming for his usual nonchalance but probably sounding more like a scared child.

"I'll stay with him, Professor, and make sure he's really all right," Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley's shoulder protectively.

"If you both think that's what's best, I'll leave you two. There must be quite a strong bond between you," he commented, "for your boggart to be, well, what it was." He stood to go, gathering his briefcase from the front desk. "I strongly suggest you do talk about what happened together," he added as he walked towards the door. "Discussing it should help you both feel better."

He left, and the room was quieter than ever. The two fifth-years simply sat for a long minute, their gradually slowing breathing the only sound. Aziraphale still had his hand on Crowley's shoulder, and Crowley took comfort in the touch as he worked to return his heartbeat to normal.

"Well, my dear," Aziraphale said at last, "shall we talk about it, then?"

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. "Angel, I really don't see why—"

"Oh, no you don't, A. J. Crowley," Aziraphale said sharply. "You aren't going to just sweep this aside like it's nothing, the way you always do—"

"The way _we_ always do, Az, you know you do it as often as me," Crowley retorted. "We don't actually do the whole share-your-feelings stuff, do we?"

"Be that as it may," Aziraphale huffed, "this is something we can't just drop. Crowley, your boggart was—was me…and I want to know _why_."

"I don't know why, Aziraphale, okay?" Crowley responded, more heatedly than he'd intended. "Do you think I was _expecting_ to see you sprawled out like that, do you think I _knew_ that's what the boggart would turn into for me? Do you really think I would have _faced_ it in front of everyone, in front of _you_ , if I'd known?"

"I…" the Ravenclaw began, but couldn't seem to think of anything to say. "Dear…"

"I can only guess," Crowley said, looking away from his friend, "that's it's because I…I care about you more than anyone in this bloody world, Az, do you know that? You're my best friend. And I'm bloody sssscared of losing you." The lisp he'd had when he was young resurfaced in that last sentence, as it did when he was upset, and he growled. He had to get out of here before he started bloody crying or something. He jerked his shoulder out from under Aziraphale's touch and stood to go.

"Crowley, wait—"

He was halted in his departure by a hand seizing his own.

For the second time in the past few days, his and Aziraphale's hands were clasped. This time, however, neither of them let go.

Slowly, Crowley turned back to his friend, who was also standing now. His heart was beginning to pump hard again, but with an entirely different kind of fear than what the boggart had inspired.

"Please don't go, not yet," Aziraphale said. "You know I care about you too, don't you? I need you to know that."

Crowley decided the mood was desperately in need of being lightened before he did something reckless. "Gee, Az, and all this time I thought you only cared about rare editions of books," he joked. It worked; Aziraphale chuckled gently.

"Mostly those," he agreed, "but a few other things may be more important."

"Ooh, I _may_ be more important than moldy old books gathering dust in the library, how thrilling."

"Oh, just take the compliment, won't you?" Aziraphale laughed, squeezing Crowley's hand.

"Okay, okay, I'll take it," Crowley conceded. "Now can we get out of this bloody room? Knowing what's in that wardrobe is giving me the heebie-jeebies."

"Good idea," Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley regretfully released his friend's hand so that they could grab their bags from separate desks before heading to the door. They both reached for the doorknob at the same time, and their fingers brushed together.

They paused, regarding each other, and then Crowley grinned, retracting his hand.

"After you, angel," he said with a mock bow.

Aziraphale opened the door and then, suddenly, seized Crowley's hand again. Crowley's heart gave a start, but he didn't let go.

"Do you mind?" the Ravenclaw asked uncertainly.

"No," Crowley answered truthfully, "I don't."

And so they stepped out the door together, hand in hand. Because their class had been dismissed early, no one else was in the hall. Crowley's head felt light, and he mused on the fact that his emotions could shift from anguish to elation in such a short frame of time.

"So, is it my turn to interrogate you yet?" he asked his friend, swinging their hands unconsciously as they walked along the empty corridor. "Why was your boggart an expulsion letter?"

"Oh, well…I wouldn't want to leave you here alone, would I?" Aziraphale answered carefully.

Crowley could tell there was more to it, but he decided not to push it.

"Yeah right," he scoffed instead, "I bet you'd miss the library more than you'd miss me."

"Would not!" Aziraphale protested. "Well…all right, so I would miss the library a good deal," he conceded.

They were quiet a moment, then the Ravenclaw spoke again, haltingly. "You know, our first year, when we entered the Great Hall the first time, and I saw the sorting hat, I was petrified." He was carefully studying the stone floor as they walked slowly along, not looking at Crowley. "I…well, you know—since my mother was a squib, and all—I didn't think I'd be getting a letter to come to Hogwarts at all. When I did, I was sure it was a mistake. So when they sat me on that stool and put the hat on my head, I was sure…I was sure…" He trailed off.

"That it would say you weren't magic after all," Crowley supplied for him. He squeezed his friend's hand. "Merlin, that must have been terrifying. I'm sorry, Az."

"Even after it placed me in Ravenclaw, I couldn't help doubting its choice, for a long while," Aziraphale continued, still avoiding eye contact with Crowley. "I worried all of first year about someone coming to tell me that I wasn't meant to be here after all, give up your wand and hurry along back to the muggle world. I suppose," he said, and attempted a chuckle, "I suppose that worry's lingered with me enough for that to be my boggart."

Crowley listened to their shoes echoing along the stone floor and the murmur of classes going on behind some of the closed doors they passed. He wasn't sure what to say.

Finally, he spoke. "Well, Az, you're still here, aren't you?" he reasoned. "And I've _seen_ you perform charms that would put some wizards to shame. There's no need to doubt that you're meant to be here— _umph._ "

Aziraphale had pulled Crowley into a tight hug. "Okay, Az, you trying to squeeze me to death or something?" Crowley said in a strained voice.

"Sorry," the Ravenclaw said, loosening his grip. "I just—thank you, dear."

As they pulled apart, classroom doors started to open, and students poured into the corridor—the period must have ended.

Aziraphale did not reach to take Crowley's hand again, which was probably for the best, now that other people were around—he didn't much fancy him and his friend being the subject of gossip later this afternoon.

"Shall we head to lunch?" Aziraphale asked. "I'm starving."

"Yeah, me too," Crowley said.

Speaking of gossip, though, he realized, they were likely to be assailed by curious peers about what had happened with the boggart. Oh, well, let them say or think whatever they wanted. With Aziraphale by his side again, he figured he could face just about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be a bother and ask for feedback, but I'm about to enter a few loosely-guided chapters, so if there's anything in particular you want to see in this story--a favorite character, or class, or anything at all--please feel free to leave a comment letting me know what it is, and I'll do my best to incorporate it into the fic, if it fits! Any suggestions for improvement are also welcome, of course!


	13. Chapter 13

When Crowley blearily opened his eyes the next morning, he found he was the only one still in the dormitory. He checked the clock on his bedside table. It read 8:56.

"Shit," he mumbled, rolling out of bed and struggling to pull on his robes. He grabbed his wand and bag, shoved his sunglasses onto his face, and stumbled out of the dormitory, hurrying down the winding staircase. He had four minutes to get to Divination, which was all the way off in the North Tower. He rushed out of the portrait hole and sprinted down the corridor, his bag thumping against his leg with every step.

He'd never get there in time, he realized as his brain started to come fully awake, and slowed to a stroll. Ah, well. It wouldn't be the first time he was late to a class, or the last. He might as well embrace being very late, rather than arrive only somewhat late but flushed and out of breath.

A few of the portraits twittered as he ambled past them. "You should be in class," a veiny-nosed, bald old man chastised him from an ornate gold frame. "You'll never make anything of yourself at this rate."

"Oh, stuff it," Crowley replied thoughtlessly, provoking the old man into following after him, frame to frame, warbling out reprimands. The Gryffindor increased his pace somewhat to get away, and finally lost his decrepit pursuer when he climbed a flight of stairs.

"Respect your elders or—you'll end up badly!" was the final admonition the old man hollered after Crowley from the midst of a painting of young ballerinas, who looked annoyed by the sudden interruption of their warm-up exercises.

Crowley chuckled to himself, glancing behind him to watch the irked ballerinas attempting to shove the old man from their portrait—and almost ran straight into Peeves.

The poltergeist was hovering at the top of the staircase, leering down at Crowley with a mischievous glint in his eye.

The Gryffindor groaned inwardly and made his way around Peeves, hoping against hope that the poltergeist would decide he had better things to do than antagonize Crowley. But Peeves trailed behind him as he walked, cackling. Crowley decided the best thing to do was to try to ignore him—he was almost to the staircase leading to the Divination trapdoor, he could make it.

"Heeeeeeey Creepy-Crawly," Peeves said in a sing-song voice directly next to Crowley's ear, his breath cold and uncomfortable in Crowley's ear canal; "where's your boyfriend at?"

"What?" Crowley couldn't help himself; he stopped dead in his tracks. "I don't have a _boyfriend_ , Peeves, now shove off before I hex you."

"Oh, but dooon't you?" Peeves said, a wicked smirk on his face. " _I_ heard that you were holding haaaands with a certain Raaaaavenclaw yesterday." He flipped himself upside-down, the bells on his hat tinkling, and floated in front of Crowley. "Are you in luuuurve, Crawly?"

Bloody hell, someone must have seen them holding hands after all. "Peeves, you keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it for you," Crowley said hotly.

"Oooooh, Creepy-Crawly's _cranky_ , doesn't want us talking about his loooover," Peeves cackled delightedly. "Crawly's in luuuurve, Crawly's in luuuuurve with Azira—"

" _Flipendo_!" Crowley cried, and Peeves somersaulted backwards, howling, as the knockback jinx hit him. He managed to regain control of himself just before hitting a wall.

"Rude, Crawly, ruuuuude!" he whined.

"Bugger _off_ , Peeves," Crowley snarled, keeping his wand pointed at the poltergeist.

After blowing a huge raspberry in Crowley's direction, Peeves zoomed off down a side-corridor, still cackling. Crowley heard the poltergeist's singing echo back at him along the stone walls:

"Azira and Crowley held hands yesterday,

Peevsie knows it's not long until wedding songs play!"

Crowley groaned and continued his walk to class, hoping Aziraphale wouldn't run into Peeves any time soon.

The silvery ladder that led up into the tower was still lowered when he reached it. He climbed up and entered the usual perfumed haze of the Divination classroom, slipping into a seat next to Anathema.

"Ah, Mr. Crowley, just when I expected you," Professor Trelawney said in her wispy voice. "Please get out your _Dream Oracle_ and I'm sure your tablemates will fill you in."

We're studying oneiromancy," Anathema told him as he pulled out his textbook. "Dream interpretation." Her tone of voice let him know exactly what she thought of that.

"Don't believe that dreams hold all the secrets to the future, eh?" Crowley nudged her.

"I don't prefer to put my faith in flimsy bits of my own subconscious, no," Anathema said drily. Trelawney heard the remark, and her wide eyes bugged out even more than usual behind her huge spectacles. She glared at the Slytherin, but said nothing, passing on to the next table with her nose in the air.

"We're supposed to be discussing any dreams we can remember from the past week," Newton said to Anathema's left.

"Oh, well, I dreamt I was being chased by a giant bowl of chocoballs the other night," Crowley supplied, "what d'you suppose that means?"

"Okay, let me check the chapter on food symbolism…" Newton said, completely missing Crowley's sarcasm and flipping through his textbook.

At the end of class, Trelawney reminded them of their assignment to keep a dream journal for the rest of the month, recording each night's dreams and writing down what they might mean.

"Oh, and Crowley dear," she said as they were gathering their things, "you're going to be late to next class as well, so make sure to work extra hard to keep caught up."

Crowley rolled his eyes and climbed down through the trapdoor.

"All I ever seem to dream about nowadays is homework," Aziraphale complained as they made their way down from the North Tower. "And it's not hard to interpret what that means."

They _were_ getting a lot of homework this school year, more than they ever had before. Crowley knew his friend was feeling the strain of their heavy workload already, more so than he himself was. He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder sympathetically.

"If anyone can keep on top of all this work, Az, it's you," he reassured him. "Don't worry."

Crowley and Anathema split off from Newton and Aziraphale to head to Muggle Studies. As they entered the dimly lit classroom, Anathema spoke in a low voice.

"I heard about what happened with the boggart yesterday, Crowley," she said. "I wish I had properly interpreted its coming, I would have warned you about it."

"A little warning definitely would have been nice," Crowley said, "but seeing as you still won't tell us _how_ you make your predictions, it's not like I expected it of you."

Crowley picked a desk near the front of the room. Professor Burbage had promised them last class that they'd be watching a muggle film today—hence the dimmed lighting and the presence of an old television set in front of the blackboard*—and Crowley wanted to be up close for it. He loved movies, and had only ever gotten the chance to watch them during Muggle Studies and the couple times he'd been to Aziraphale's over breaks. He couldn't fathom why the magical world insisted on avoiding all things electronic, when things like films could be so thrilling.

"Are you aware there are also rumors going around about you and Aziraphale being sighted holding hands?" Anathema asked as she pulled a quill and parchment from her bag.

"Oh," Crowley said, feeling his stomach dip. "Yeah, I'm not surprised. Peeves more or less told me so on my way to Divination." He rubbed his temples. "Are the rumors bad?"

"Not terrible, no. Just the usual speculation that comes whenever people here want to know who's dating whom," Anathema said, distaste in her voice. "No one in this bloody castle knows how to mind their own business."

"Do you, er, know if Az has heard the rumors?"

"Not for sure, but no doubt he's been asked to confirm them by this point," Anathema replied matter-of-factly. "If you had been at breakfast, I bet someone would have pestered you about it too."

Crowley felt his stomach do another flip. "Well it wasn't, you know, anything romantic."

"No?" A smile quirked the corner of Anathema's mouth.

Crowley was still trying to think up a good defense against the Slytherin's infuriatingly knowing grin when Professor Burbage spoke from the front of the classroom.

"Today we are watching the first half of the muggle classic _Goldfinger_. It features James Bond, whom we discussed briefly last year in our action heroes unit, if you recall. Please take notes as you watch," she instructed. "Identify the movie's genre and some featured tropes. Take careful note of any instances of misogyny or racism you observe, because one option for your essay when we've finished will compare their prejudices to those of our own world. Also, list out a few objects or customs you see from muggle society that you would not find in the magical world, as well as some that can be found in both of our cultures, as discussing these will be your alternative essay topic."

The movie began to play, and Crowley was soon immersed in the exploits of the dashing and daring James Bond.

He was indignant when the period ended right at the most suspenseful part—how could they just leave off here, and have to wait all the way till the next class to see if Bond managed to save the day? He complained about this to Anathema as they headed towards the Great Hall for lunch.

The rest of the day passed slowly. Crowley had History of Magic in the afternoon and dozed off during it—it was almost impossible not to, with Professor Binns droning on and on.**

At long last the afternoon classes came to an end. A good number of students headed out for some fresh air during the free hour before dinner, as the weather was warmer than it had been for the past week. When Crowley invited Aziraphale to join him outside, the Ravenclaw looked hesitant to accept the offer.

"I don't know, dear…I should really work in the library…"

"Aw, come on, Az," Crowley coaxed him, "we won't be getting weather this nice for much longer."

"Oh, all right," Aziraphale acquiesced. "But you better let me get actual work done."

They ran into Anathema and Newton as they made their way onto the grounds, and the four of them found a sunny spot in the grass to settle down in. While his companions got to work on some reading for classes, Crowley lay down.

"Really?" Aziraphale said, disapproval heavy in his voice. "You just napped through Professor, Binns' whole lecture, don't you think you should get some work done now?"

"I will, I will," the Gryffindor said, waving his hand dismissively. "Just give me a moment to unwind first, will you?"

The Ravenclaw tsked, but let him be.

Taking off his sunglasses and tucking them in a pocket of his robes, Crowley folded his arms behind his head and languidly watched the clouds float by high above him. He had almost drifted off when a high, childish voice jerked him back awake.

"Crowley!" he opened his eyes to find Pepper's freckled face above his, grinning down at him. "Hi!"

He sat up. Pepper was accompanied by Adam, Wensley, and Brian. The two Hufflepuffs were greeting Newt.

"We were wonderin' if you an' your friends wanted to play twenty questions with us," Adam announced.

"Nah, we've got work to do, sorry," Crowley told him.

"Work! But you're layin' on your back half-asleep!" Brian objected.

"Yeah, well, I'm meditating," Crowley lied. "Brainstorming for an essay."

"Okay," Adam said, and Crowley tried not to feel guilty about how crestfallen the younger Gryffindor looked.

"Anathema, you sure you don't wanna play?" Pepper asked the Slytherin girl hopefully.

Anathema looked up from her reading. "I've got too much work, sorry."

"Aw, okay," Pepper said dejectedly. "Maybe some other time."

The gaggle of first-years sat down in the grass a slight ways off from the four fifth-years, close enough that Crowley could hear them as they played their game from where he lay, his eyes closed again as he enjoyed the breeze playing across his face.

"Brian, I keep _tellin'_ you, you've got to make it a yes or no ques—" Wensley was saying, and suddenly stopped.

"What do you want, Greasy Johnson?" Crowley heard Brian ask warily.

"Nuthin'," a new voice—the kind of voice that belongs to a boy who's hit puberty much earlier than his peers—said gruffly. "Just wonderin' why you an' Wensleydale here are hanging around, you know… _them_."

Crowley opened his eyes and sat up a little so he could see what was going on. A boy who was much taller and stockier than any of his fellow first-years was towering over the four eleven-year-olds on the ground. Greasy Johnson, Brian had called him.

"What do you mean by 'them'?" Wensley asked coolly, glaring up at the hulking boy through thick spectacles.

"You know… _their_ type. _Muggleborns_." Johnson said the last word with the face of someone who's just discovered that the Bertie Bott's bean they've put in their mouth is bogey-flavored. "Your parents won' like you playin' with them, an' you know it."

Crowley glanced at his friends and saw that they were all watching this exchange too, anger on their faces.

"Every fresh load of first-years brings in at least a few bigots," Aziraphale muttered from beside him.

"Well," Wensley was replying to Johnson, "I know I'd prefer to play with ' _them'_ than with someone like you any day."

"Is that so?" Greasy Johnson growled, his burly hands clenching into fists. He took a step forward.

Pepper stood up quickly, hands also clenched, and her three friends followed suit. The four of them were each at least a head shorter than Johnson, but their expressions were fierce.

"You heard Wensley, he doesn't wanna play with you," Pepper said threateningly.

"Yeah. Now go on," Adam said. The level of authority in his voice sounded very peculiar coming from an eleven-year-old who had some pudding from lunch still smeared on the corner of his mouth.

"I don' take orders from muggleborns," Greasy snarled.

Anathema and Crowley looked at each other, and as one stood up. The two of them sauntered over to the group of younger students as Aziraphale and Newton watched anxiously.

"I wouldn't make trouble here, if I were you," Anathema warned Greasy, her voice smooth but hard as steel.

Greasy Johnson was big, but still not quite as tall as Crowley or Anathema. He glared up at them.

"What are you two goin' to do about it?" he asked angrily.

"Would you like to stay and find out?" Anathema asked, twirling her wand casually along her fingertips as she stared the bulky first-year down. Her voice was calm, but there was no mistaking her ominous tone.

"Believe me, kid," Crowley said from beside his Slytherin friend, "you don't want to see her angry."

Greasy made eye contact with Crowley, and his own eyes widened in shock. Crowley still had his sunglasses off, and he fixed Johnson with the harshest glare his yellow eyes and slitted pupils could offer.

Greasy turned to Wensley and Brian. "I'll be lettin' your parents know about your choice in friends," he warned them. He glanced at Anathema and Crowley one more time—the forbidding stance of the one, the unnerving, serpentine eyes of the second—and turned away to leave.

"Go ahead!" Brian crowed as the bigger first-year hurried away. "Tell 'em we're a part o' the Them!"

"Yeah, the Them!" Wensley and Pepper repeated.

"That's a good name for us, I like it," Adam said. "From now on, we're the Them," he declared.

"Thanks for helping us out," Wensley said shyly to Anathema and Crowley.

"Yeah, you were awesome!" Pepper added, beaming up at Anathema in particular.

"No problem," Anathema said.

"Just try to stay out of trouble, okay?" Crowley told them.

He and Anathema made their way back to Aziraphale and Newt, who were watching their return with relieved expressions.

"For a moment I was worried you two were going to jinx an eleven-year-old," Aziraphale remarked as he picked up his book again.

"There would hardly have been need for that," Anathema replied. She sat back down, pulling out some parchment to begin an essay.

Crowley settled back down in the grass and closed his eyes with a contented sigh, listening to the scratch of Anathema's quill, the turning of pages, the giggles of the Them where they sat not far away. It was a nice day.

 

* * *

 

 

_Footnotes:_

*While electronics did not usually work at Hogwarts, a spell was cast around the bounds of the Muggle Studies classroom to keep them functioning.

**Well, somehow Aziraphale always managed to stay awake, but at least half of the class tended to use History of Magic lectures for a catnap like Crowley did.


	14. Chapter 14

"It's pear flavored, Newt, I promise. I just had one of the same exact color—definitely pear."

Rain was drumming its thin, wet fingers along the high windows of the abandoned classroom where Aziraphale was sitting with his three friends. It might have been a rather dreary place to spend a Saturday afternoon, if they hadn't transfigured a few of the desk chairs into cozy (if rather misshapen) armchairs* to gather around Anathema's hand-held wireless. Since they'd only managed to create three seats, Aziraphale and Crowley had to cram together into the largest one, which happened to have turned out significantly wider than the average armchair.

Aziraphale was currently paying more attention to the blank parchment in front of him that was _supposed_ to be a Potions essay than he was to the scratchy voice emanating from the wireless or Crowley trying to persuade Newt to eat a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean. Every time Aziraphale extended his arm too wide when lifting his quill, his elbow jabbed into Crowley's side, and remembering to make only small movements was taking most of his concentration.

"Well…if you're sure it's pear…" he vaguely registered Newt saying as he struggled to think of a good start for his essay.

Crowley reached his arm across the Ravenclaw's paper to hand a bean over to Newt, who was sitting to their right. Aziraphale realized what was going on just in time to save his Hufflepuff friend from a disgusting fate.

" _Stop!"_ he cried, smacking the pale green jellybean from Newt's hand and causing the startled Hufflepuff to jump. "Don't eat anything that _devil_ gives you," Aziraphale continued, fixing Crowley with a withering look. "I once took a red one he _swore_ to me was cinnamon and ended up with a mouth that tasted like a dirty old sock."

"How do you know what a dirty sock tastes like?" Newt inquired curiously. Anathema and Crowley snickered as the Ravenclaw bristled.

"Believe me, if you tasted it, you'd _know_ ," he sniffed.

"Why'd you have to ruin the fun anyway, Az?" Anathema complained, while Crowley nodded.

"Fun for you two, perhaps," he huffed, "but hardly pleasant for your _victims_. I'm rather disappointed in you, Anathema, being a prefect and all."

The Slytherin rolled her eyes. "Hey, I wasn't the one instigating the trouble," she defended herself. "I was just enjoying the show."

"What _was_ the flavor of that one really, then?" Newton asked Crowley.

"Oh, overcooked cabbage, I think," the Gryffindor answered offhandedly. "Or else troll bogeys, I'm not sure which; they're both a very similar shade of green."

"Ugh," Newton said, looking slightly green himself.

Just then, the radio host mentioned something that drew all their attention: Sirius Black.

Just the name had the power to silence a whole crowd of chattering students, let alone the four friends alone in their classroom. Foreboding settled over them like an itchy blanket as the tinny voice announced:

"Reports of a Sirius Black sighting came in from near Ipswich this morning. A Mr. Dionysus Finch reported seeing him, quote, 'jus' outside me garden, grinnin' at me like the devil hi'self from over the fence as I was hangin' my laundry out to dry,' unquote. All folks living near Ipswich are advised to be on the alert, and if you sight Black, remember to contact Ministry authorities. Do _not_ approach him yourself, as he is highly dangerous and—"

"Do they really think he's anywhere _near_ Ipswich?" Anathema suddenly interrupted. "He's not even in England right now," she scoffed, "I can't believe they still have literally no clue about—"

"Wait," Crowley said, "you mean to tell me that _you know_ where Black is?"

"Not exactly," Anathema said airily, "but I have reason to believe he's traipsing around somewhere in Scotland, _not_ Ipswich."

Everyone gaped at her. Even for Anathema, that was an unnerving piece of information to so casually possess.

"Okay, how—" Newt began, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"It doesn't matter _how_ I know, the fact is that the Ministry won't find my sources…credible," she said. "So there's little point in even knowing, really." She sounded exasperated as she said this.

Aziraphale and Crowley shared baffled looks. The tap of raindrops against the windowpanes and the grainy voice on the radio filled the silence that fell after this revelation.

"This stuff about Black is depressing," Newt finally said brightly. "Here, I'll change the station—"

"No!" the other three exclaimed as one. Whenever Newton Pulsifer so much as set a finger on any sort of machinery, it tended to end with the machine smoking, smashed, or otherwise inexplicably broken.**

"Let _me_ change it," Crowley said, and got up from his seat next to Aziraphale to fiddle with the dial. There was a hiss of static and white noise as he searched for a new station, and then upbeat music, slightly tinny, began emitting from the small speakers.

"There we go." Satisfied, Crowley sauntered back to his seat. He didn't sit in it as he had been before, however. Instead, he reclined sideways, his legs dangling over one arm of the chair and his back leaning against Aziraphale's shoulder, his dark hair lightly brushing the Ravenclaw's cheek.

"Do you mind?" Aziraphale asked, miffed.

"Not at all," the Gryffindor said cheerily, not budging.

Aziraphale sighed and shifted slightly to get his friend's hair out of his face, resigning himself to this new seating arrangement, and tried to return his attention to his homework as Crowley's back pressed into him.

It took him a moment to notice what song the wireless was playing.

     " _Lord!_  
      Somebody, somebody,  
      Can anybody find me somebody to love!"

Aziraphale knew this song…it was _Queen_ , wasn't it? How strange.

"Hmm," he commented, "I didn't think we could get muggle stations from inside the castle."

"Oh, this is a muggle song?" Anathema said curiously. "I didn't think it sounded familiar."

"Whatever it is, I like it!" Crowley declared enthusiastically. "Is all muggle music like this?"

"A great deal of it nowadays, yes," the Ravenclaw sighed. "I prefer the classics myself, like Tchaikovsky—now _that's_ quality music."***

"Well, this sounds pretty wicked to me," Crowley said, bobbing his head in time to the music. With each bob of his head, his hair tickled Aziraphale's cheek in a most distracting way.

"What, you like this looooove song?" Newt said, drawing out the 'o' in 'love' in a way that made his teasing tone unmistakable.

Crowley suddenly sat up straight, so that his hair was no longer in Aziraphale's face and the pressure on Aziraphale's side eased. The Gryffindor looked decidedly uncomfortable, oddly.

Anathema shoved Newt's shoulder from her chair beside him. "Really, Pulsifer?" she muttered, annoyance in her tone.

"I like the beat, yeah," Crowley said, aiming for nonchalance, and turned to flick a jellybean towards Newt's face. "So what if it happens to be a love song?"

"Sorry," the Hufflepuff said sheepishly, seeming to realize he'd overstepped some sort of line.

Aziraphale continued to regard Crowley as his friend shifted in the chair so that he was sitting in it normally again, no longer reclining sideways against Aziraphale. There was now a small gap between the two of them, an inch of space where they had pressed comfortably together before. Crowley seemed…self-conscious? Embarrassed? But why?

It took the Ravenclaw's brain a few moments of puzzling for things to click, _Queen_ providing background noise to his pondering. Ah. Crowley must have heard that news of their hand-holding had spread throughout the castle, and that everyone was taking it to be a sign that they were an "item." But surely Newton didn't believe that?

"Crowley and I haven't been engaged in anything _romantical_ , you know," Aziraphale announced, looking pointedly at Newt. "We were holding hands the other day _as friends_. Right, dear?"

"Obviously," Crowley said quickly. "Merlin, Pulsifer, do you believe every speck of gossip this school spits out?"

"Sorry, sorry," Newt said again, throwing his hands in the air. "You're right, I was just joking, is all."

"Good," Aziraphale said, but even as he said it, he felt a strange pang of regret somewhere deep in his chest. Crowley's quick response almost disappointed him…but that was ridiculous. He and Crowley were friends, nothing more and nothing less.

He stole another glance at the Gryffindor as the _Queen_ song came to an end, the high, gospel strains that accompanied Freddie Mercury's voice calling for "somebody to love." Crowley was staring off at nothing in particular, distractedly twisting his bag of Every Flavour Beans in his hands. Aziraphale fought the urge to reach out and grab those hands, to steady them, to curl the nervous fingers around his own. It had been so comforting, had felt so _right_ , the other day, holding Crowley's hand, and a large part of him itched to feel that again. But the small space Crowley had made between them on the seat felt like a great chasm.

Just friends. _Obviously_.

And he had a Potions essay to write. Aziraphale shook off the thought of reaching for Crowley's hands like a bothersome pixie, and returned his gaze to his blank parchment, lifting his quill to fill it with words.

* * *

_Footnotes:_

*While Aziraphale was useless at transfiguring animals, he was one of McGonagall's top students when it came to inanimate objects. It had only taken his and Anathema's combined efforts a few tries to convince the desk chairs to lose the hardness of wood and become soft and cushiony enough to be called armchairs. Still, it was hard work, and they'd only succeeded in producing three, giving up after several minutes on transfiguring a fourth.

**They'd once asked him whether he'd been cursed as a kid, but, being a muggleborn, how could he have been? Either way, it was probably for the best that the magical world contained a significant dearth of machinery for Newt to destroy – apart from radios, wizarding technology stayed firmly entrenched in the eighteenth century or so.

***Some months later, Crowley and Aziraphale would happen to catch an earful of another muggle song, again _Queen_. "Is this that Chai-ski guy you mentioned that one time?" Crowley would ask. "No, no," the Ravenclaw would reply with a heavy sigh, "this is 'Crazy Little Thing Called Love.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist slipping a reference to Queen somewhere into this thing, so I hope that turned out okay!
> 
> Also, a note on the "just friends" line because I feel a little bad about using it but couldn't think of a better way to word it, to any aromantics who are reading this: As a gray-aro myself, I hate the idea that there's anything just or only about friends—of course platonic love can be just as strong and important as romantic love; when Az uses the word "just" here, he doesn't mean it as anything less, he's simply accepting that they're friends alone, with no romance included.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter alters the Harry Potter timeline significantly, as I have many future members of the DA learning how to perform a patronus now. I figure since this is an au, it's all right to deviate from Rowling's plot somewhat.

The weekend passed and Monday classes came and went. Crowley's Muggle Studies class finished watching _Goldfinger_ , and for once Crowley actually seemed excited to write an essay. It was all he would talk about with Aziraphale that evening. When the Ravenclaw offhandedly mentioned that he had seen some James Bond films himself—"You mean there are _more_ of them?" Crowley exclaimed, the flabbergasted look on his face almost comical. "Oh Az, you've got to tell me about them _all_ "—Aziraphale accidentally signed himself up for trying to recall the plots of several old movies.

"Look, Crowley, I don't remember exactly how they all went!" he finally protested as Crowley pleaded for more details about _From Russia, with Love_. "How about this—if you come to my house for the winter holidays, we can check some out from a library and watch as many as you like."

"We can do that?" Crowley asked, golden eyes widening behind his shades. "Muggle libraries let you borrow _films_? That's wicked! We'll have to check out _Dr. No_ , and _You Only Live Twice_ , oh, and _Goldfinger_ to watch again of course, and…"

As quickly as that, the poor Ravenclaw had condemned himself to a winter full of James Bond. Ah well, he thought, massaging his temples as Crowley babbled on excitedly at his side; anything to get his friend to stop pestering him now.

On Tuesday, Aziraphale and Crowley had Defense Against the Dark Arts again. As they walked together to the classroom, Aziraphale felt his stomach start to roil. He couldn't help but feel anxious about a class wherein the last session had ended with his corpse on the floor.

Crowley seemed to notice his friend's nervousness—and perhaps he was feeling something similar—because he clapped a bracing hand on Aziraphale's shoulder as they neared the classroom door.

"Hey, I doubt there will be boggarts this time, and I don't reckon there's anything much worse he could show us," he said. "Everything'll be fine, okay Angel?"

The old nickname (Aziraphale had been relieved when Crowley started using it again after their quarrel) served as a lifeline for the Ravenclaw's floundering spirits; he grabbed hold of it and offered his friend a feeble smile.

"You're right of course, my dear. After you?"

The two stepped into the classroom, which was already about half full of their peers. There were two empty seats in front of Fred and George*, so they slipped into them and Crowley fell into conversation with the twins, twisting back in his seat to face them. Aziraphale stayed facing forward, pulling a book from his bag to immerse himself in until the start of class.

As Aziraphale settled into his reading, he couldn't help but hear one of the twins – he wasn't sure which, he could never tell them apart – ask Crowley, "So when can we expect our wedding invitations, lover boy?"

The Ravenclaw felt his stomach flip, but didn't look up from his book. Would the school _ever_ stop talking about him and Crowley? For Heaven's sake, it had just been hand-holding, it wasn't like they'd _snogged_ or something. He supposed that, since it was still the beginning of the year, there wasn't enough gossip yet to replace them. Give it another few days, and everyone would forget about it, hopefully…

"Unless you're both in the mood for a bat-bogey hex, I suggest you shut up," he heard Crowley growl. The Gryffindor was speaking quietly, as if hoping Aziraphale wouldn't pick up on the conversation.

"Oh, so you two aren't …" Fred began.

"An item?" George finished for him.

"No!" Crowley said forcefully. Aziraphale could feel his cheeks burning, but he kept his head down and his back to the twins, his eyes glued to the page in front of him.

"Ah. Our bad, mate," Fred said, and the Ravenclaw was surprised to hear genuine apology in the redhead's voice. It had always intrigued Aziraphale how easily Crowley kept the twins under control. They were prone to going just a step too far in their pranks and teasing, but not where Crowley was involved. "We'll keep mum about any potential love life of yours from now on."

"We should have know the rumors were false," George said mock-earnestly. "It was a bit over-optimistic of us to believe _you_ might have anything resembling a love life."

"Oh, stuff it," Crowley told them both, just as Professor Lupin entered the classroom, and Aziraphale finally found it safe enough to raise his eyes from his book.

The buzz of talk stilled as their skinny, shabby-robed teacher made his way to the front desk, an expectant hush taking its place. After the boggart, no doubt everyone was wondering what uncanny creature Lupin had in store for them today.

He smiled around at them all, looking tired but affable.

"This is one of the few class days," he said pleasantly, "when you will be needing parchment."

There was a flurry of movement as everyone reached into their bags to pull out parchment, quills, and ink. When all was still again, their teacher spoke again.

"To begin with," Lupin said, "I would like to make it clear that what we learn this week will not be featured on any tests, and you will be getting no marks for it. In fact, I do not even expect all of you to succeed in performing the spell that we will be practicing for the next two class periods."

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, confused. All the students were stirring, intrigued by this information.

"The reason I am setting aside these two class days for something you won't see on your OWLS," Lupin continued, "is because a good number of students have approached me with concerns about the grim guests hovering just outside Hogwarts grounds this year." Ah. The dementors. Aziraphale shuddered at the mere thought of them. Recalling the recent encounter with dementors on the grounds, he felt very glad that they'd be learning how to fight them. "It seems that many of you would feel safer about their presence if you knew how to defend yourselves against them—and rightly, too."

Lupin had the full attention of every student in the room. Most were leaning forward slightly in their seats, hanging on to every word—the professor was correct in thinking they wanted to know how to keep dementors at bay.

He went on to explain the incantation they could use to defend themselves against dementors, one that Aziraphale had read about in various books over the years: the patronus charm. When combined with an incredibly happy thought on the part of the conjurer, the spell could produce a "spirit guardian," a patronus that would ward off the dementors.

"Like you did on the train?" Alicia Spinnet asked from the front row.

"Yes," Lupin agreed, offering her a smile. "Like I did on the train at the start of term. Now," he continued, "I want to emphasize the difficulty of performing this spell—many adult wizards and witches never master it. But I will do my best to help you, and we'll take it slow. Like I said earlier, we can only afford to spend two class days on this, and I don't expect any of you to conjure up much more than a wisp of an incorporeal patronus in such a short time. Therefore, you'll have to practice outside of class if you want to truly master it; I'll be offering after-class hours when you can practice with me, if you like."

Aziraphale felt his respect for Lupin grow. He clearly cared very genuinely for his students, which was more than several of the other Hogwarts teachers could claim.

"The reason I asked you to get out parchment," Lupin went on, "is because we'll begin by writing down our worst memories." That hardly sounded pleasant. As if reading Aziraphale's mind, Lupin remarked, "I know it isn't the most agreeable business, recalling the worst moments of your life, but it's one of the best ways to prepare for what dementors will do to you. If you have a good idea of what they'll make you remember, you'll be better able to combat it."

With those words, everyone got to work writing down the worst memories they could think of. The thing was, though, Aziraphale's mind was drawing a blank. As Crowley scribbled away beside him, hunched over his paper in a way that shielded his words from any prying eyes, the Ravenclaw sat staring at his blank parchment, trying to think.

"You won't be turning these in, of course," Lupin added over the scratch of quill pens. "These are completely private, so don't be afraid to get down even your most embarrassing moments, as well as the saddest or scariest."

Ah. Embarrassing moments counted. Aziraphale had plenty of those.

He started writing some down, hesitantly at first, and then with more speed as memories started resurfacing. Some particularly harsh "lessons" he'd received from bullies at his muggle school when he was young. Taunts of "squib's son" chasing him down crowded stone corridors in his earlier years here at Hogwarts, mostly before he'd befriended Crowley.

He kept thinking, trying to remember what the dementors from the train had dredged up in his mind. One memory rose, bittersweet, to the surface of his brain. The first half was joyous, one of the happiest moments of his life—but it was tainted, stained with the sourness of the second half of the memory, so that he could hardly recall the joy.

He was eleven years old. It was a warm August morning, and he had opened the door to fetch the paper when a thick, cream-colored envelope plopped onto the welcome matt in front of him, dropped not by the postman, but an owl.

With shaking hands, he picked it up, carried it up the two flights of stairs to his attic room—gingerly, as if it were as flimsy as a spider's web, ready to dissolve into the air if handled too carelessly. Setting it on his bed, he regarded the red waxy seal on the front, which unmistakably bore the crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Surely it couldn't be real. He'd hardly expected—hoped, yes, but didn't for a moment think it likely—to receive one.

For whatever reason, his wizard-born mother didn't have a drop of magic in her, so why should he presume to? There'd been hints of a spark, perhaps, over the years, little things that _might_ have been magic, that had kindled his hope…but whenever he'd been completely honest with himself, he'd always concluded that it was highly improbable, him being a wizard.

He stared at the envelope on his bed for a long minute, almost afraid to touch it, as if it might burst in a puff of smoke and be gone forever. Then, with a sudden jerk, he picked the envelope up again, tore it open, read the words held within it more hungrily than he had read anything before.

He was a wizard. This letter, this document, _proved_ it. He possessed the magic his mother lacked—cruel as fate, arbitrary as a twist in a rung of DNA, it had passed her by, not deigning to swim in her veins but settling sweetly into his own. He was going to get a wand, he was going to study at Hogwarts, he was going to learn magic.

That was the happy part of the memory.

Letter in hand, little eleven-year-old Aziraphale zoomed back down the two flights of stairs, curls bouncing with every step, and skittered into the kitchen, his socks almost slipping on the smooth wooden floors.

"Mum, look!" he cried, and set the letter in front of her where she sat at the table, going over her budget books.

She stared at the letter in front of her, the emerald ink glittering at her from its crisp cream parchment. Her eyes moved over the first few lines, then halted.

When she glanced up at Aziraphale, her gaze was heavy with resentment. Aziraphale felt his heart grow cold, the elation coursing through him freezing under that bitter look.

It was only there for an instant, a fraction of a millisecond, before it transformed into a smile.

"My son, a wizard!" she said, her voice only quavering on the last syllable. "My Azi—come here, sweetheart!" And she stood to receive him into an embrace.

Then months that followed, taking them together into Diagon Alley to buy his wand and robes, his spellbooks and owl, she never revealed anything but joy to be sending her child off to Hogwarts. But Aziraphale's excitement was tainted by that split second, that instant of resentment from his mother's eyes that had burned into his spirit.

She had every right to be a little bitter, he reasoned, as she hugged him tightly just outside the wall between platforms 9 and 10 in King's Cross Station. The school that had never sent any letter to her, the world that had shut her out, stranding her in a no-man's-land between magic and muggle—the ostracized life of a Squib—had opened its arms to him. She had every right. But it still cut him to the core, knowing that his own mother was jealous of him. It left him with a jumble of emotions—sorrow, discomfort, shame, and even a bit of anger, that she had ruined what could have been one of the happiest moments of his life.

Aziraphale blinked out of his reverie as Crowley nudged him from the desk beside him.

"You okay, angel?" the Gryffindor murmured. Aziraphale glanced at his friend's parchment; it was a lot fuller than his own. Crowley casually moved his elbow to block the Ravenclaw's sight.

"Yes, I'm fine," Aziraphale answered, and turned back to his parchment, quickly jotting another line down.

"Everyone get some memories down?" Lupin called from the front. "Good. That was the easy part, as it happens. What we'll work on next is much more challenging—thinking of a happy thought."

A few people giggled at this, as if it were a joke; Lupin smiled benignly around at them all.

"It may sound silly, but it's harder than you might think to come up with one solid, happy thought that's strong enough to focus into a patronus," their teacher explained. "Thus, I'd like you next to brainstorm a few of your happiest memories—list at least three. And then, whenever you're ready, stand up, gather one of those happy thoughts into your head, channel it into your wand, and shout, _Expecto Patronum!_ "

Lupin had his own wand raised as he spoke, and at his last words a jet of silvery white light radiated outward. It did not take any shape, remaining a formless stream, but it emitted an almost-tangible feeling of hope, of lingering happiness, and Aziraphale could _feel_ how such a light might drive away clinging shadows like so many cobwebs.

The light faded as several members of the class _oohed_.

"And that," Lupin said, "is a patronus. Just as your first attempts will likely remain incorporeal, I kept mine without a shape; once you've really got a hang of the spell, your patronus will take the form of whichever animal you share the closest connection to—or at least, that's what the theory is." Lupin added that last part rather disdainfully, and Aziraphale found himself wondering what the professor's patronus was. Perhaps he didn't agree with the animal, if he was wary of performing it in front of his students?

Angelina Johnson had a different question for their teacher.

"Professor, if you don't mind me asking," she asked from beside Alicia, "what's your happy thought?"

Lupin paused, and for a moment Aziraphale didn't think he would answer.

"Oh, just an evening with old friends," Lupin said vaguely. "It does not need to be a big, life-changing memory," he announced more firmly, "just so long as the happiness connected to it is _strong_."

He put them to work thinking of happy memories. After five minutes or so, students began standing up sporadically to test them out, holding up their wand and crying, _"Expecto Patronum_!" Not so much as a puff of white emitted from any of their wands. Lupin walked around, murmuring quietly to students who were attempting the spell, giving them pointers.

Aziraphale looked down at his list of happy thoughts. They all looked so flimsy. That time he received a first edition of Bridget Wenlock's memoir, _Demystifying Seven_ , for his birthday a few years back, was at the top of his list. Most of the items on his list were, in fact, recollections of discovering old tomes. Was the thrill of a new book really enough to dispel dementors?

He supposed he lived a rather uneventful life. He didn't have any truly nasty memories—but he didn't have any extraordinarily fantastic ones, either.

Next to him, Crowley stood up. Aziraphale glanced at his friend's paper – his list of happy thoughts was quite long. What had he put on it? The Gryffindor's scrawl was too cramped and messy for Aziraphale to read from a distance without being too obvious. So he watched Crowley instead.

The Gryffindor had taken off his sunglasses, Aziraphale observed with some surprise – when they were around so many people, Crowley only did so when he was really concentrating on something. In fact, his stance, his expression, his tight grip on his wand, all exuded an air of intense concentration. He must remember their brush with dementors too.

Crowley lifted one hand to brush stray strands of his long, black hair from his face, scrunched up his eyes in that endearing way of his, and shouted, _Expecto Patronum_!"

Nothing happened.

Crowley lowered his wand, looking a little put out. Lupin walked over and began murmuring pointers to the Gryffindor, and Aziraphale looked back at his list of thoughts.

Well…he supposed he ought to try one. He picked the third one on the list, one of the few not related to books—" _befriending Crowley_ "—and stood up.

He thought back, working to pinpoint one specific moment to focus on as Lupin had told them to.

Not the moment he'd actually started interacting with Crowley, he decided. There had been a specific moment when he'd finally realized that they were friends.

They were walking to the lake together, which had quickly become their after-dinner routine that first year, to feed the ducks. The snow crunched under their feet—it was a week or so after the winter holidays—and their breaths lingered in the air. Crowley was bundled up in more layers than Aziraphale thought humanly possible, and was still shivering. But the Gryffindor was cheerful, talking on and on about—something…Aziraphale could no longer remember what.

At the pond, they had one of their habitual debates, about whether the giant squid ever ate any of the ducks. Aziraphale had made some comment, he couldn't quite recall what, something about how the giant squid could eat _all_ the ducks at the lake and still not fill his belly—plus he'd have to deal with coughing up all those _feathers_ after—and Crowley had thrown back his head and laughed with his typical abandon that had always impressed but slightly scared Aziraphale.

The Gryffindor clapped Aziraphale on the back when he'd managed to catch his breath again, and said, still chuckling, "You like to think you're all solemn and serious, but you're really hilarious, Angel, you know that?"

With that touch and that remark, it had suddenly clicked in the Ravenclaw's mind that he had a friend. "Oh!" he exclaimed aloud, stunned. He looked Crowley up and down. Not what he ever would have expected his ideal friend would be like…but all the evidence pointed to the fact that they were, indeed, friends.

Aziraphale joined in with his new friend's laughter, suddenly very, very happy to be standing there on the edge of this chilly lake, tossing bits of biscuit to waterfowl.

All those years later, standing in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Aziraphale raised his wand, directing all of his focus at the ending feeling of that memory. He tried to channel that feeling through his wand, as Lupin had instructed, and cried, " _Expecto patronum!_ "

Nothing happened.

He groaned. And that had been a really _good_ memory, too—why hadn't it worked? He lowered his wand dejectedly, glancing back at his list. He didn't think he _had_ a better one to try.

Just then, in the front of the classroom, a stream of white light flashed out for an instant from Angelina Johnson's wand.

"I did it!" She cried, turning around to beam at everyone. "Did you all see that? I did it!"

"Stellar work, Angelina," Lupin commended her from where he stood beside Roger Davies. "Five points to Gryffindor!"

By the end of class, a handful of people had succeeded in producing at least a wisp of white light. Crowley was among them. Aziraphale was not, to his own chagrin.

"How did you do it?" he asked Crowley as they packed up their things to go. He tried to keep the frustration from his voice, but didn't do a very good job of it.

"I just…focused on a happy thought, like Lupin said to," Crowley answered. "If you can settle on a good one, you'll get it."

"Well, I just can't seem to think of a good enough thought, I suppose," Aziraphale sighed. Together, they headed for the classroom door. "What was yours?"

"Oh, er…" Crowley said, looking suddenly embarrassed.

"Go on, what was it?" Aziraphale cajoled, suddenly very curious.

"Oi, Crowley! Wait up!" It was either Fred or George, the other redhead trailing behind him with their other friend, Lee Jordan.

"We need you for…er, something," Lee began, ending vaguely when he noticed Aziraphale listening.

"He's not a prefect," Crowley said, glancing at Aziraphale; "you can say whatever it is in front of him."

"No, it's all right, I'm going to the library," Aziraphale said. He nodded curtly to Fred and George and then moved on alone down the corridor, leaving Crowley to whatever mischief his friends wanted him to join in on.

As he walked, he continued to ponder what Crowley's successful good memory could have been. Perhaps a particularly well-performed prank with Fred and George? That would be just like the Gryffindor, holding some minor misdeed as his dearest memory. But then again, would something like that really be strong enough, when none of his own book-related memories had been? Plus, Crowley had acted as though the memory were something he'd be embarrassed to share with Aziraphale…

He resolved himself to uncover what Crowley's memory had been. After all, knowing his friend's might help him come up with his own. He had to coax it out of him somehow—and if the Gryffindor refused to tell him, well, he'd simply find it out on his own.

* * *

_Footnotes:_

*The two seats in front of Fred and George Weasley in any class tended to remain empty until there were no other seats to pick from—all their peers were well aware by now that the cost of sitting in front of the redheaded twins tended to include bits of paper flung at them or a feather levitated to tickle their ear for the whole period.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of friendship-building between Crowley and some of his pals!

" _Mobilibrachium,"_ Crowley murmured, and watched in delight as Draco Malfoy's arm—still in its sling from his hippogriff-induced "injury"—suddenly jerked upward, knocking over a goblet of pumpkin juice.

The juice spattered Pansy Parkinson's robes where she sat beside her third-year peer, causing her to screech. She had been gazing adoringly at Malfoy as he drawled on about something that couldn't be heard from the Gryffindor table, but which Crowley figured was probably boorish. He snickered as Malfoy tried to mop up Parkinson's robes with his one good arm.

Just then, Fred and George appeared and settled onto the bench next to Crowley.

"What are you so tickled about?" George asked curiously.

"Watch," Crowley said, and pointed his wand at Malfoy again. " _Mobilibrachium."_

This time Malfoy's good arm jerked upward. Since he was still wiping at Pansy's robes with a napkin, this caused his arm to conk her under the chin.

Malfoy's pasty face went a whole shade paler as he stared in shock at his own arm. Pansy got up from the bench, shouting at Malfoy, and then stormed out of the Great Hall, leaving the pallid blond to sit, looking confused and embarrassed, alone at Slytherin table.

Fred, George, and Crowley could all hardly breathe from laughing so hard.

"Amazing, mate," Fred chortled breathlessly.

"Made up the spell myself," Crowley said proudly. "It's a deviation of _mobilicorpus_."

"Not unlike the spell we'll be casting in a few minutes, eh?" Fred said, elbowing him.

"Oh, right!" Crowley said. He'd forgotten about the scheme they'd arranged after their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson yesterday. "Where are the…you know?" he asked, sniffing the air. "I don't smell them, so they must not be on you."

"Oh, they're not, they're in a little nook we found once under the grand staircase," George explained. "Figured it wouldn't make sense to bring them in here with us and spoil our appetites."

They tucked into their breakfast, soon joined by Lee Jordan, who was as excited about their impending prank as they were.

Ten minutes till nine, Anathema and Newton made their way over to Gryffindor table.

"Ready for Divination?" Newt asked Crowley cheerily.

"Oh, er, I'm actually going to be a little late, I've got…something I have to do first," Crowley said.

"I _told_ you, Newt," Anathema said exasperatedly.

The gangly Hufflepuff glanced at Fred, George, and Lee. "I hope it's nothing that will get you into any trouble?" He said it like a question, unconsciously adjusting the prefect badge on the front of his robes as he did so.

"'Course it is," Crowley answered, "but only if I planned on getting caught."

"Er…okay," Newt said awkwardly. "Make sure…not to do that. Get caught, I mean." He glanced again at the Weasley twins.

Fred and George saluted him. "Fear not, Mr. Prefect sir," they said in unison, mock-serious. "We'll keep good little Crowley far from any trouble," Fred added, putting his arm around Crowley.

"Come _on_ , Newt, we'll be late too if we don't head out now," Anathema said, tugging on the Hufflepuff's arm. "And thanks in advance for getting us out of Potions," Anathema said as a parting comment to the four Gryffindors, then turned smoothly on her heel and led Newt out of the Hall.

"Now how does _she_ know about what we're about to do?" Lee Jordan asked, annoyed.

Fred turned to Crowley. "You wouldn't have told a _Slytherin_ —"

"and a prefect, no less!" George chimed in—

"—about our plan, would you?" Fred finished.

"I'd trust Anathema with anything, as it happens!" Crowley defended his friend. "But I didn't tell her about this, no. She's just…spooky, about knowing things," he ended somewhat lamely. It wasn't the most satisfying answer, but it was the only one he had.

Five minutes to nine, the four of them left the Great Hall, as the last of their peers trickled out to hurry off to classes. They slunk over to the side of the Grand Staircase, where the twins had stashed their goods.

They hadn't quite reached the nook when Crowley caught a whiff of what was in them. "Ugh—remind me why we had to use dungbombs again? They really reek."

"That's the point," Lee answered; "there's no way even Snape would make us sit through class with the smell of these fresh in the air!"

"Does everyone have their gloves?" Fred asked. The three others nodded, and pulled them from their bags. They'd agreed upon bringing their dragonhide Herbology gloves along so that they wouldn't be touching the dungbombs with their bare hands. When handled, the bombs tended to leave a stench on skin that lasted for hours, and it would be bad luck indeed to get caught just because their hands reeked of dung. Having stinky gloves in their bags wouldn't be too incriminating – they already smelled anyhow, since they used manure so often in Herbology.

They all slipped on their gloves and cautiously lifted one bomb each. They had four in total, which was plenty to cause a god-awful stench for at least the rest of the day – and since the dungeons had poor ventilation, probably longer.

It was now nine o'clock sharp, meaning that all students and teachers should be safely in class. Making sure to hold their cargo carefully, the four mischief-makers made their way down into the dimness of the dungeons.

They stopped a short ways outside the Potions classroom, where they could hear Snape's curling drone through the cracked door.

"All right, set them down," Fred murmured, and each bomb was placed gingerly on the rough stone floor of the corridor. "And…levitate them."

" _Mobiliarbus,"_ four voices whispered, and the dungbombs rose into the air. Crowley pointed his wand to direct his all the way up to the ceiling, where, concealed in shadow, it continued to hover even after he'd lowered his wand. Around him, his three friends did the same with theirs.

They left the dungbombs floating and crept away, back up out of the dungeon. As soon as they'd made it to the Entrance Hall again, they erupted into laughter.

"Oh, this is going to be fantastic," Lee chortled softly as he pulled off his gloves.

"You sure they'll fall when we need them to?" Crowley asked the twins.

"Certain of it," Fred replied confidently. "We worked it out – they'll fall about twenty-five minutes before our Potions class is due to start."

"Which means they'll go off when we're all safe in our previous classes – the perfect alibi," George said smugly.

"It better work," Lee remarked; "I didn't finish my Potions homework."

"You twat!" Fred cried, laughing. "You know Snape'll insist on collecting it even if class is cancelled!"

"Oh, no, you're right!" Lee said, stricken.

Lee's comment about homework reminded Crowley of something. "Shit. I forgot about my Divination homework!"

"Oh, bad luck," George said sympathetically. "What did you have to do for it?"

"Just record my dreams or some nonsense," Crowley said. He hastily pulled out some parchment. "Problem is, I hardly ever remember my dreams."

"Just make some stuff up as you walk to class, then," Fred suggested.

"Yeah, that's what I planned on doing." Crowley started to scribble madly.

They parted ways, each heading to their own class, and Crowley tried to keep his handwriting at least marginally readable as he wrote down dreams while walking to the North Tower.

He finished getting a dream down for every night of the past week just as he reached the trapdoor. He scrambled up the silvery ladder into the Divination classroom, about twenty minutes late. Trelawney's opening instructions were already over and small-group conversation well underway.

The dreamy-eyed professor nodded at Crowley as he entered, the beads around her neck clinking lightly, but said nothing; he suddenly recalled that she'd predicted his lateness last class.

Crowley joined Newt, Anathema, and Aziraphale at one of the low tables.

"I hope you don't make tardiness a habit," Aziraphale chided immediately. "Did you do your dream journal, at least?"

"Yeah," Crowley answered. "Made all the dreams up, but I made them extra vile, so I'm sure Trelawney will approve."

Aziraphale tutted at him.

"I made up most of mine too," Newt admitted from the other side of the table. "The only real dream I could remember was one about trying to get a computer to work – it exploded and burned down half a town," he said glumly. "Do you think she'll be able to tell the rest are made up?" he added nervously.

"No," Anathema said, "especially if you've got one as good as that—fiery destruction of a town? She'll love it."

"Oh, don't tell me you made yours up too?" Aziraphale asked the Slytherin despairingly.

"Maybe, and maybe not," she answered with a smirk.

"What are your dreams then, Az, that they were good enough not to fabricate?" Crowley asked. He leaned over to try to look at his friend's parchment, laid out as it was on the table.

"Nothing," the Ravenclaw said quickly, covering his work with his arm. "Just essays and tests, mostly."

"Jeeze, Aziraphale, your dreams would put most people to sleep," Newt said, and looked around as if expecting them to laugh. No one did, leaving him looking quite put out.

Just then, Professor Trelawney meandered by, and one of her many long necklaces caught on the top of a chair. The string broke with a _snap_ , and beads flew everywhere, scattering along the floor and across the four friends' tabletop.

"Oh, dear me…Mr. Anchell? Would you mind helping me…?" Trelawney said distractedly, as she bent to scoop up some of the runaway beads. Aziraphale got up from his seat to seek out beads that had rolled under the table. Newt got up to help as well.

Crowley seized the moment to skim over Aziraphale's recorded dreams. Sure enough, they were all boring: failed exam, late essay, piles of homework…oh? But what was this?

For last night's dream, Aziraphale's spindly cursive read, _Held hands with a certain person as we walked across the grounds_.

Crowley felt his blood pounding in his ears as his heart sped up. Could that "certain person" be anyone other than him? If so, who? And if it _was_ him, why would Aziraphale have dreamed such a thing?

He looked up from the parchment to find Anathema regarding him.

"Find anything interesting, detective?" she asked dryly.

"Nah," Crowley said, making an effort to keep his tone casual, "looks like his dreams really are all as dull as he said."

When Aziraphale and Newt rejoined them at the table, Crowley made sure not to betray his racing heart with any more glances sent Aziraphale's way.

When Divination had ended and they'd turned in their dream journals—with instructions to continue recording dreams for the next week as well—Anathema and Crowley split off from Aziraphale and Newton to head to Potions.

They reached the entrance to the dungeons to find their classmates milling outside it, not going down. The air wafting up from below smelled faintly of sewage.

"Nice work," Anathema muttered to Crowley, a smile flickering on her lips.

"Filch is down there, investigating dungbombs that went off," Alicia Spinnet told Crowley gleefully as he and Anathema approached. "He doesn't seem happy about it."

"You and Fred and George wouldn't have anything to do with it, would you?" Angelina Johnson asked Crowley suspiciously.

"How could we have been?" he replied. His voice and face were as innocent as a cherub's, but there was a devilish glint in his eyes just visible behind his sunglasses. "We've been in class all this time."

"Right," Angelina said, smirking.

Just then, the two twins showed up, Lee Jordan behind them. They all high-fived Crowley.

"The best pranks are the kind that get us out of class, eh mate?" George murmured.

Their other classmates had noticed the appearance of the redheads, and flocked to them, offering their thanks and congratulations.

"Who, us?" Fred said in answer to all their praise. "You really think upstanding students like us would be responsible for this shameful misdeed against the establishment?"

Snape appeared in a sudden whirl of black robes from the depths of the dungeon, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Obviously, class for today is cancelled," he announced brusquely. "If I find out who is responsible for this," he added with a snarl, his eyes resting on Fred and George, "they will be severely punished. As it is, hand in your essays, and expect a doubled workload next lesson."

Everyone turned in their essays, including poor Lee Jordan, who only had half of the required length of parchment filled. Was it Crowley's imagination, or did Snape take a big sniff when Fred and George offered him their papers, as if to scent out any dungbomb residue on their hands?

Papers turned in, all the students headed off, either to common rooms or the library or the Great Hall, to spend their new free time however they wished.

"Better hope he doesn't find out it was you," Anathema said softly to Crowley. "Snape is good on his threats."

"He won't," Crowley said confidentially. "How can he pin anything on us, when we were all in class when the dungbombs went off?"

"I'll admit it was clever," Anathema conceded, "but I suppose I oughtn't condone such behavior, as a prefect."

"Sure," Crowley agreed, "but as a fellow miscreant…"

"Oh, come off it," she laughed. "I am not half the 'miscreant' you are!"

"Yeah? What about that time you helped me jinx Trelawney's tea leaves so they'd spell out 'Bugger all' when brewed?"

"That _was_ pretty dastardly," Anathema agreed, laughing. "Anyway, I'm off to the library, you want to come?"

"I should…" Crowley said, thinking of the enormous pile of homework he'd been putting off.

"Well come along then," she said.

What good was getting out of Potions if all he did with his free hour was study? He sighed, but followed the Slytherin to the library anyhow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the idea of Aziraphale's dream journal mentioning something about him and Crowley comes from the wonderful Archive user voidandstars, so thanks for that, dear!


	17. Chapter 17

In the next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, they continued their work with patronuses.

Aziraphale grew more and more disgruntled as the class period went on. All around him, an increasing number of his peers were succeeding in generating silver-white light, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't get the tiniest thread of a patronus to form.

"Don't let yourself get frustrated," Professor Lupin told him gently when about ten minutes of class remained. "I know it's difficult, but you have to try to keep your mind fairly clear of negative thoughts or stress in order for your happy thought to take over."

This seemed rather unreasonable to Aziraphale—if he really were facing down a dementor, he was sure he'd be very stressed indeed. But he did his best to heed his teacher.

When Aziraphale next glanced at his watch, the minute-hand hovered on the final sixty seconds of class time. This was the last day they'd be practicing, so it was now or never.

He scanned through his list of happy memories, settled on one, picked up his wand again. He focused all of his willpower on his happy thought, every muscle in him straining with concentration. He'd do it on the count of three. _Three, tw—_

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

A brilliant silver-white sheet blossomed in front of him, brightening the entire classroom for a solid five seconds before fading.

"Excellent, Crowley!" Lupin exclaimed from the front of the classroom. Crowley, standing beside his desk next to Aziraphale's, dipped into a facetious bow as Fred, George, and a few of their other classmates applauded his spell.

Aziraphale blinked the after-effects of his friend's patronus from his eyes, scowling. Deciding not to bother with a last try, he lowered his wand.

"That's it for practicing the patronus charm in-class," Lupin announced as everyone started packing up. "Next lesson, we'll begin working on the counter-jinxes detailed in chapter four of your textbooks, so if you like getting a head start, I suggest reading through that chapter."

Inwardly steaming over his failure (and nursing no small amount of jealousy at his friend's success), Aziraphale marched out of the classroom, Crowley in tow. They made their way to the library, despite the Gryffindor's grumbling that if he spent much more time around books this term he'd likely turn into one. Settling down at a table far from the sharp eyes of Madam Pince, they dug into their frankly alarming mounds of homework. Or at least, Aziraphale did: Crowley had taken a few books out of his bag to humor the Ravenclaw, but every time Aziraphale glanced over to check his progress, Crowley was simply doodling on the edges of his blank parchment. Ah, well, he was too busy with his own work to nag his friend.

Aziraphale's vexation slowly ebbed away as he immersed himself in his Charms textbook. There never was a bad feeling that reading couldn't cure. Crowley, on the other hand, grew increasingly fidgety as the minutes passed.

A group of Slytherins ambled by their table, and the Gryffindor's eyes lit up with sudden mischief. "I'm going to…go look for a book," he nonchalantly informed Aziraphale as he stood.

"Of course you are," Aziraphale said drily. "Just don't do anything that will get us kicked out of the library, all right?"

"Uh-huh," Crowley replied distractedly, already slithering after the Slytherins like a snake after its prey.

Aziraphale finished reading what he needed to start his Charms essay. He rifled through his bag for parchment, only to find that he had none with him. Well, Crowley wouldn't mind if he borrowed a sheet of his. He pulled the Gryffindor's bag toward him, rummaged through it, and extracted a piece of parchment, but saw it was already covered in his friend's messy scrawl. He was about to put it back when he realized what it was: Crowley's list from their first patronus lesson.

He recalled his resolution from the other day to figure out what Crowley's happy thoughts were, and eagerly – if somewhat guiltily – began scanning the page.

The first half of the parchment was filled with the bad memories that Lupin had first had them write out. For some reason, Aziraphale felt worse about looking at these than the happy thoughts, so he did his best not to focus on them. A few words stuck out before he stopped scanning this half of the page, however: _eyes_. _Uncle._ _Gran dying_. _Dad. No friends._ And then his gaze snared on his own name, where a cramped line read: _That fight with Az last year_.

Aziraphale felt his stomach twist with something like shame at the realization that he was the source of one of his best friend's worst memories. Unbidden, his brain flashed back to that awful quarrel.

A fourth year Aziraphale stood, hands on his hips, in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady as Crowley approached it. It was the evening after yet another mysterious attack from someone who claimed, in bloody words smeared on stone walls, to be the Heir of Slytherin, re-opener of the legendary Chamber of Secrets. First Filch's cat, then Justin and a ghost, and now a poor first-year Gryffindor named Colin Creevey – whom Aziraphale knew had tried to take a photograph of Crowley's eyes just the night before, to the older Gryffindor's fury.

"Where have you been all day?" Aziraphale demanded as Crowley reached him. "Don't you know I've been worried sick?"

"Why would you be worried about me?" Crowley dodged the first question, clearly aggravated. "No Heir of Slytherin's going to be attacking _me_ , not with the blood I've got." He said the word _blood_ like it was something bitter in his mouth.

"No," Aziraphale agreed, "they wouldn't. But Crowley…you know what people are _saying_ , don't you?"

"That Potter's the Heir? Yeah. Now let me through, will you…" Crowley made to get around Aziraphale, who spread his stance wider to block the Gryffindor's approach to the portrait.

"Don't be _dense_. The _other_ rumor. The one that names _you_ as Heir."

"The gits who live in this castle believe a lot of rubbish, Az, in case you haven't noticed," Crowley said brusquely. Then he bristled. "Wait, don't tell me – you believe it."

Aziraphale hesitated, then answered, "I didn't say that."

"But you do." Crowley's voice was hollow, flat, as if he were speaking from a far distance. "You think I'm the one opening the Chamber. Setting some sort of monster on innocent people."

The truth was, Aziraphale didn't know what to think. His confusion had mounted into frustration and was now transforming into fury, building up inside him and spilling out over Crowley: "Well, if I did, would it really be so farfetched?" Aziraphale couldn't stop himself from getting louder and louder. "You slink around, disappearing to God knows where for hours at a time, and refuse to tell me anything—" he paused to collect himself, trying to rein in the rage boiling in his veins. "For all I know," he continued, his voice hushed now, "you _could_ be the Heir!" _Like you said, you certainly have the blood for it_. He did not voice that last bit aloud, thankfully. But they both knew he was thinking it, that everyone in the whole damn castle was thinking it—Crowley possessed the perfect lineage for laying claim to Slytherin's legacy.

Crowley had gone absolutely still. Wordless, his golden eyes flashed with a mix of shock, anger, and betrayal behind his dark shades. He shouldered Aziraphale out of the way, muttering the password and slipping into the Gryffindor common room when the Fat Lady swung open to admit him. The portrait slammed shut, leaving Aziraphale in an empty corridor.

"You can't really think it's him," the Fat Lady remarked softly, eyeing the Ravenclaw. Aziraphale felt shame swirl through his veins, quieting his anger, and he turned on his heel to head to his own bed. He didn't believe so, not really. How could he dare to think such things about his best friend?

Back in the present, Aziraphale shoved the flashback from his mind with a shudder. It did little good to dwell on such bitter memories.

He reminded himself of his mission: to discover which thought Crowley used to cast his patronus. His eyes moved down to the half of the page that held happy thoughts, scanning it for one that seemed likely.

Like the bad memories, they were all very vague, no more than a few words per thought. He had no idea what half of them meant – _Toothpaste_? and _Pumpkin pasties incident_? What on earth could those be? Others he could understand: _Sorted into Gryffindor_. _Making friends_. _The Great Prank Battle of '82_. _Halloween last year. Hippogriffs_.

Then, in the middle of the list, circled, he read the word _Mistletoe._

It took his brain a moment to bring up a memory that clicked with the word. When it did, he felt a wave of heat rush into his cheeks, leaving him breathless.

Winter, two years ago. Crowley had spent the holidays at Aziraphale's home for the first time. It had been a wonderful few weeks (why hadn't he thought of it for his own list?). And the mistletoe…Aziraphale's cousins had hung mistletoe in his bedroom as a way of teasing them. For whatever reason, they'd got it into their heads that he and Crowley were…that they…well.

 _And were they wrong_? a needling voice in his head pestered him now. After all, Aziraphale had taken it upon himself to execute the traditional kiss under mistletoe, stealing a quick peck on Crowley's cheek before running downstairs, face hot and heart racing. Neither of them had ever mentioned it again.

His musings were interrupted by a sudden hiss of surprise from further down the rows of bookshelves, followed by Crowley's voice: "Okay, okay, I'm going!"

Aziraphale scrambled to replace the sheet of parchment in Crowley's bag before the Gryffindor emerged from behind some shelves, dodging charmed bits of balled up paper that were hurling themselves at his head. The group of Slytherins that he'd followed after were cackling – but not too loudly, for fear of summoning – behind him.

"That'll show you not to try sneaking up on Slytherins," one of them said smugly.

"I was just looking for a book," he complained as they turned to go back to their own business. "No need to pelt me with paper."

He sank down into the seat beside the Ravenclaw, rubbing the back of his head. His gaze shifted to one of confusion as it landed on his bag—which was a good foot closer to Aziraphale than it had been before Crowley had left.

Aziraphale watched helplessly as Crowley's eyes took in the incriminating parchment half sticking out of the bag, and then moved to rest on Aziraphale's own guilty face.

"So," Crowley said simply, reaching for his bag and pulling out the parchment. "You decided to snoop through my stuff while I was away? That's cool, angel."

Aziraphale was relieved to hear the old nickname, even through his embarrassment—if Crowley was using it, he must not be too upset.

"I was looking," Aziraphale defended himself, "for some spare parchment. …But I did look at your list," he confessed, trying not to sound too sheepish. "I just thought if…if I could see what you used to cast a patronus, it would help me cast one too."

"Oh," Crowley said, understanding dawning on his face, "you're jealous of me, aren't you? For succeeding on a charm you can't do?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale admitted grudgingly. "I just can't figure it out, I don't understand why it's so easy for you—"

"It's only easy," Crowley interrupted, "because there isn't a real dementor in Lupin's classroom while we practice, now is there? If I had to cast the spell in front of dementors, when bad memories are actually in play, well," he let out a short, wan laugh, "I wouldn't do nearly so well."

Aziraphale thought about this. "Fair enough," he said. And then he steeled himself to add, as casually as he could, "…Mistletoe's the happy thought you use?"

Crowley readjusted his sunglasses in the way he did when he was embarrassed. "I just used that word to jog my memory for the whole holiday," he said quickly. "It was a good few weeks, after all." He shook his head. "You're lucky I sneaked a peek at your dream journal, or I'd be a lot more peeved about—"

"Hang on," Aziraphale interjected, indignant, "you read my dream journal?"

"Yep. So we're even."

" _Even_? So I took a glance at your _notes_ , mine was literally a _journal_!" Aziraphale fumed.

"You don't think you're being a little hypocritical here?" Crowley asked drily.

"All right, fine. We're 'even'," the Ravenclaw sniffed. "Just don't go looking into my private things again. Now, if you excuse me, I have a lot of work to do, so I'd appreciate it if you kept quiet." With that, Aziraphale turned back to his books, pretending to immerse himself in them while his brain buzzed with too many thoughts to concentrate.

It was quiet for several minutes. Then, Crowley spoke again.

"You, er, dreamed about us…holding hands, huh?"

Aziraphale kept his eyes on the book in front of him. "What of it?" he said carefully. "Dreams are strange and random, it's not like it means anything."

"Right," Crowley said. A moment later, he mumbled, so quickly Aziraphale almost didn't catch it: "Iwouldn'tmindholdinghandswithyouagain."

Aziraphale finally looked up from his book to observe his friend. Crowley's eyes were carefully downcast, his fingers playing with a loose thread on his bag.

The Ravenclaw weighed his friend's words in his brain, running through the various possible meanings of his statement. Wouldn't _mind_ holding hands—does that mean he'd merely acquiesce to holding hands to please Aziraphale, or did Crowley actually _want_ to do so himself? And what did it mean if Crowley _did_ want to hold hands? Was it a declaration of something other than platonic friendship? No, surely not. But he had to make sure.

"It is rather… _nice_ , holding hands, isn't it?" Aziraphale said carefully. "I mean, people act as though it _has_ to be a romantic gesture, but surely friends should be able to do it too."

"Yeah, exactly!" Crowley said, seizing on Aziraphale's words. He looked up at last, making eye contact with the Ravenclaw through his sunglasses. "Why shouldn't it be a thing people can do, just as friends?"

"So you do want to?" Aziraphale pressed. "Hold my hand, as friends?"

"Sure," Crowley said. "I mean, everyone's missing out, aren't they, acting like it's purely romantic."

"They really are," Aziraphale agreed, and reached across the table for Crowley's hand.

They spent the next hour or so in companionable silence, hands clasped as they worked on their respective assignments. Both of their palms were somewhat sweaty, but neither of them commented on this fact. By unspoken agreement, whenever other students wandered by their table, they quickly released hands – no use in having more rumors about them spread across the school, after all – and then joined them together again once curious eyes had passed.

It was a very pleasant way to do homework, Aziraphale mused, enjoying the warmth channeling from his friend's hand into his own. Why had they waited so long to try this?

That night, when Aziraphale made his way up to his dormitory, he found it empty. He shrugged off his robes and pulled on his pajamas by candlelight. He was about to climb into bed when an idea struck him.

He picked up his wand from where he'd placed it on his nightstand. Imagined the word _mistletoe_ , circled on Crowley's parchment. Summoned the memory of that moment in his bedroom at home, the kiss he'd quickly pressed into Crowley's cheek. Recalled the feel of Crowley's skin, warm and smooth under his lips.

" _Expecto patronum_!"

The room remained shadowy and dim, no silver-white light flashing out to outshine the candles. But Aziraphale was sure he'd felt _something_ , a quivering in his fingers, like a small electric jolt. He'd almost managed it this time, he was certain of it.

Grinning, he placed his wand back on his nightstand and got into bed, quickly falling into a deep, satisfied sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the full story behind the mistletoe, see my short fic "Home for the Holidays with Aziraphale."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, the part of this chapter that depicts Crowley's memory is pretty dark -- so content warning for some minor violence and potentially body horror.

For the next week, Crowley and Aziraphale held hands whenever they got the chance. They "just happened" to run into each other in empty classrooms, rendezvoused in quiet corners of the library, and deliberately took long routes to class that led them down scarcely used corridors.

They even held hands on the sly during Care of Magical Creatures – a class that had not lived up to the expectation for excitement and danger that having Hagrid as a teacher had promised. After the trouble that third-year Malfoy had caused with the hippogriffs, Hagrid seemed fearful of teaching anything else that might end in a court hearing. Instead, lessons proved to be nearly as dull as History of Magic, long-hailed the most tedious class offered at Hogwarts. They had been feeding flobberworms for the past two weeks, in which the greatest risk they faced was getting the green mucus that constantly dribbled from either mouth of the fat brown worms all over their robes.

Apart from being monotonous and gross, shoving lettuce into either end of each flobberworm seemed rather pointless to Crowley: he was fairly certain that Hagrid's students of all years were engaged in the same task during their class times, as the worms were gradually growing more and more rotund.

"It's a wonder none have exploded yet," he commented to the Weasley twins where they sat across from him and Aziraphale, also feeding endless quantities of lettuce into slimy, toothless round maws.

"If any of them do explode, do you reckon mucus'll burst out and drench us?" George asked.

Fred nodded sagely. "Like a pus-filled boil."

"Ugh!" Aziraphale cried, flinging his flobberworm down; it made a gentle _flump_ as it made contact with the table. "Do you really need to say such disgusting things?" he asked Fred, annoyed.

"Relax, Az," Crowley said, "these little bastards seem to have endless stomach space—if they haven't popped yet, I don't think they ever will."

"They better not," the Ravenclaw grumbled; "this is my favorite pair of robes."

It was Crowley's bad luck to have History of Magic later in the day. He wasn't sure he could handle such an enormous dose of boredom in one day – but at least he could snooze through Binns' class without reprimand.

He sauntered into the classroom as the bell rang to signal the start of the period and slipped into the seat Newt was saving for him.

"How's it going?" he asked quietly as their ghostly professor floated through the blackboard at the front of the room and began lecturing about giants in his dry, chalky voice.

"Pretty good, pretty good," Newt replied distractedly; "hey, I've been wanting to ask you something."

Crowley fixed the Hufflepuff with an interested stare through his sunglasses. "What?"

"Well, I was wondering if you know, er, anything about how Anathema…feels about me?"

Oh, boy. "I don't see why I would," Crowley said cagily. He glanced up to where Professor Binns was droning on, oblivious to the two students' hushed conversation. "It's not as if she confides all her secret loves to _me_."

"Love?" Newton gulped audibly. "You think she—"

"No, no, I didn't say that," Crowley interjected quickly. All he needed was for Anathema to come storming after him, demanding to know why he'd suggested she was in love with Newton Pulsifer. "I doubt she _loves_ you, Newt." Seeing the Hufflepuff's face fall, he scrambled to add, "but I think she does _like_ you. You know, _like_ like you. But you absolutely did _not_ hear that from me, got it?" Damn it, why was Newt even coming to _him_ for this kind of advice? It wasn't as if his own love life were a roaring success.

"Really?" Newton asked, the hope that blossomed in his eyes almost comical. "So if I were to ask her to go to Hogsmeade with me, as a date, you think she'd say yes?"

"Oh, I suppose," Crowley said noncommittally. "Worth a shot, at least."

"Okay," Newt said excitedly, "I'm going to do it. I'm finally going to do it!"

"Good for you. Now if you excuse me, I have a date with a nice long nap." Crowley folded his arms on his desk to cradle his head, effectively ending this conversation with the awkward Hufflepuff.

Professor Binns' monotone provided white noise for Crowley's drifting brain. Drowsily, he considered Newt's plan to ask Anathema out to Hogsmeade; what if _he_ dared the absurd and asked Aziraphale out? He fell asleep and dreamt of walking into the Three Broomsticks, hand in hand with the Ravenclaw.

The next morning, a haphazardly warm Saturday, found Crowley awake much earlier than usual. Professor Sprout was away for the weekend—visiting a sick aunt, she'd told him—and had asked Crowley to tend some of the plants.

"Most can do just fine on their own for a couple days, but a few in Greenhouse Three are rather delicate and need daily care," she'd explained.

He'd been more than happy to acquiesce. It took a lot to drag A.J. Crowley out of bed, but a chance to bask in solitude in the deliciously hazy heat of the greenhouses made slithering from his cozy nest of blankets worthwhile.

Crowley had just left the castle and set out across the grounds when a high voice called behind him.

"Crowley! Crowley, wait up, it's me!"

Wonderful. There went his chances of a nice, peaceful walk to the greenhouses. "Where are you going so early?" Crowley asked as Adam fell into step beside him.

"Well, there's this dog I found about a week ago, near the edge of the Forest," Adam explained, "and I'm bringing him some breakfast." Crowley noticed that the pockets of the first-year's robes were bulging, presumably with food.

"Are you sure this dog is safe to be around?" Crowley asked skeptically. "And you know not to go _into_ the Forest, right?"

"I don't go _in_ it, just near it!" Adam insisted. "And don't worry, the dog's _real_ nice. He reminds me of my own dog, Dog." Crowley remembered the first night of school, when he'd comforted Adam who was missing his beloved pet. He supposed finding a dog to play with here wasn't a bad thing, assuming it didn't have fleas or worse. "I'm still trying to decide on a name for him. I've been thinkin' Dog Junior might be good…although he's a lot bigger than Dog…"

Crowley would have been content to continue in silence, but naturally Adam didn't feel the same way. He rambled on about this new dog: "He's big an' black and he's real smart, I talk to him an' he really listens! He knows all these brilliant tricks…"

Crowley mostly drowned out the excited speech of the little Gryffindor, until Adam abruptly veered to a new topic: "Hey, I've been wonderin' something."

Great. Another person wanting to ask him something. "What?" he said cautiously.

"Why do you wear those sunglasses all the time?"

"Why do you ask obnoxious questions all the time?" Crowley responded tersely. Leave it to a little kid to bring up the exact thing he most hated discussing. He readjusted the glasses on his nose self-consciously, scowling.

"No really. In my world—you know, the muggle world—wearing sunglasses everywhere, especially inside, is kind of douchey."

"Where'd you learn that word?" Crowley demanded automatically. "Don't use it."

Adam ignored him, hopping on one foot, practically skipping to keep up with the older Gryffindor's longer strides. "Everyone knows what your eyes look like anyway, the glasses don't hide 'em completely you know."

"Don't you ever shut your cauldron-cake-hole, kid?"

"Are you ashamed?" Adam persevered. "Is that why you always wear 'em? 'Cause—"

"Shut up! Adam, just, shut _up_ ," Crowley snapped, feeling real fury towards the first year.

"'Cause it's nothin' to be ashamed of!" Adam continued, and Crowley drew up short, the sudden earnestness on the first-year's face startling him. "There's nothin' wrong with being different!"

"Hey, hey look, it's nothing to get worked up about," Crowley said desperately, "look, I—yeah. Yeah, I know." He sighed.

"Then why do you wear 'em?"

 _Because I_ am _ashamed_. He thought the words, but didn't voice them. _Because every time I look at my eyes I remember what everyone sees me as. What I can't escape._

"Because my eyes are sensitive to light," Crowley replied eventually, doing his best to keep his voice calm. It was only a half lie—they _were_ sensitive. Adam didn't look convinced, however; he really was infuriatingly perceptive for an eleven year old.

Luckily, Adam decided to give it a rest. "Okay," he said. They walked on silently for a moment. "You wanna come see the dog with me?"

"Maybe some other time," Crowley lied. "I'm going to the greenhouses right now."

"All right. Maybe I'll teach him some new tricks to show you!"

When they reached the greenhouses, Adam bounded on across the grounds towards the Forbidden Forest. Crowley watched him, hoping he'd stay safe—and then shrugged the worry off and stepped into Greenhouse Three. What was he, the kid's _mother?_

He picked up a watering can, pointed his wand and murmured _Aquamenti_ to fill it, and set about watering the plants Sprout had scribbled down on a list for him to tend.

As hard as he tried to lose himself in caring for the plants, Crowley couldn't keep the memories that Adam's question had dragged up from tugging at his mind. He ground his teeth in frustration—first the dementors had forced him to relive the memories back on the Hogwarts Express, and now they kept resurfacing with the slightest provocation, demanding that he dwell on them.

He was so distracted that, as he finished watering a row of plants, he almost got strangled by the Venomous Tentacula in the corner. Cursing softly, he managed to untangle himself from the vines' tenacious grip. He hurried over to the opposite side of the greenhouse to check on the Mimbulus Mimbletonia, throwing a warning look at the Tentacula over his shoulder as he went.

Mimbulus Mimbletonia needed to be stroked daily to keep it happy. Crowley absently patted its boil-covered, lightly pulsating surface gently, causing it to emit a soft crooning sound.

He allowed his mind to drift as he stroked it, which proved to be an enormous mistake: distracted as he was, he prodded the plant a little too hard, and stinksap exploded from its boils, spraying him in rancid, dark-green ooze.

"Ugh!" He flung himself away from the plant, tripped, and fell backwards into the cart behind him—which just happened to hold the pots of several mandrakes.

Both Crowley and the cart crashed to the floor. Time seemed to slow down as the pots shattered around him, flinging their rich black soil into the air to rain down on him where he'd fallen. Among the pot shards lay three grayish-brown, knobby, vaguely baby-shaped lumps, tall green leaves sticking out of their heads like hair.

As the freshly unearthed young mandrakes began to cry, Crowley had time to think only one word before their unbearable screech slammed him into oblivion: _Oops._

The memory he'd been working to stifle washed over his unconscious mind like a relentless tide.

Anthony Crowley was four or five years old, and he was standing, barefoot and shivering, over his mother's bed, shaking her in an effort to wake her.

"Mummy, there's somebody downstairs, please wake up," he whispered urgently. He'd been roused from sleep a few minutes earlier to a crash, the sound of someone slamming the door downstairs open. He had rolled out from his warm nest of blankets to scurry, terrified, to his mother's room. "Please!" She stirred at last, to his relief. He didn't have to be scared now. She'd make everything okay.

The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs caused her to sit bolt upright in bed. Suddenly wide awake—she was an auror after all, trained to keep ever vigilant—she reached under her pillow for her wand.

"Cleeea," a voice emanated from the hall, "come out, come out wherever you are!"

The woman leapt out of bed, primed to fight. Then she glanced down at her son, her face softening, and seemed to change her mind. "Anthony, I'm going to apparate us away, are you ready?" she murmured, her voice only shaking slightly. He nodded, and she reached for his arm.

" _Expelliarmus!"_ A short figure had burst into the room, wand raised. At the shouted spell, Anthony's mother's wand flew from her fingers and was lost in shadow. "Ha! You thought you could get away from us this time, _dear_ sister-in-law?"

"I wouldn't come a single step closer, Ligur," Cleopatra said calmly. Her son gaped up at her, amazed that she could sound so serene.

"No need to be rude, Clea, we just want a word with you," Ligur grinned, his tone implying something much more painful than _a word_. "Just want to talk about what you've done to some of our friends…"

Anthony's uncle stepped forward. And screamed and screamed.

He'd passed the protective sigil Clea had carved into her bedpost, a rune imbued with power few wizards and witches of the modern day understood. With a flash, a net of blazing blue light had appeared from thin air and tightened around his squat form. It sizzled around his body, throwing a ghostly blue light over the room's shadows and assaulting Anthony's nostrils with the acrid scent of burning flesh. Ligur collapsed to the floor, still trapped in the glowing net, convulsing and shrieking.

Another figure appeared in the doorway, taller than the Ligur. He surveyed the scene in the glow from the net, looking from his fallen lover to the sigil on the wall.

"You…" he moved his gaze to Cleopatra's face. "To your own flesh and blood, eh? You really are a filthy little blood traitor." He spat the last two words, and she winced before returning her expression to one of stoic severity.

"Like you weren't planning on doing much the same to me, Hastur," she answered coldly. "I told all of you to keep away from me and my family. It's over. The war is over, your precious Dark Lord is dead, and I want nothing to do with any of you."

"And that's why you married a mudblood and spawned this mongrel brat." His eyes met Anthony's. They were full of loathing and a hunger to inflict pain, causing the boy's stomach to twist. "You sicken me, Clea. You are a disgrace to the family name." He eyed the sigil glowing on the bedpost, clearly calculating whether it would allow him to pass, or if he'd meet the same fate as his brother writhing on the ground.

"Where is he, by the way?" he asked. "Your dear husband?"

"That's none of your business. Take Ligur and leave." Clea was scanning the floor as she spoke, searching desperately for her wand. There was only so much time before Hastur would act, sigil or no sigil.

Anthony looked around too, and could see her wand nowhere…but he did notice another wand. Ligur's. It was lying abandoned on the floor, about a foot away from where its owner's form was shuddering—Ligur had blacked out, apparently, and was no longer screaming, but his body continued to shake and thrash in the glowing net. Anthony's mother needed a wand, any wand…if he could just get it to her…the trouble was, it was past the bedpost, outside of the protection of the sigil.

He glanced at his mother, then at Hastur, and made up his mind. He darted forward, arms outstretched for the wand—and yelped as Hastur seized him by the hair and dragged him towards him.

"Real smart kid you've got here, Clea," Hastur said sarcastically, pointing his wand at Anthony's head. "Ah ah ah," he warned as Clea started to move forward, "no sudden movements, sis, or your boy loses his head."

Anthony was too terrified to stop the plea from leaving his mouth: "Mummy! Help me!"

"Your mummy's a blood traitor, boy." Hastur looked Anthony over, much the way one inspects a fruit before purchasing it. Anthony shuddered. "If you want, though, I can take you away from her. I bet your grandmummy would raise you up right. Do you want that?"

Anthony's eyes darted from his uncle to his mother where she stood frozen. "No!" he cried out. "No!"

"Suit yourself, you nasty little worm," Hastur snarled.

"You kill him," Clea spoke up at last, "and I will skin you alive."

There was enough steel in her voice to convince him to take her seriously. "All right, Clea. I won't kill him. But," he mused, continuing to eye Anthony in a way that made him feel sick, "do you know what the best thing about Pureblood families as old as ours is? The traditions. We have family heirlooms, family grounds, family names…family curses…"

Cleopatra's eyes widened in horror. "Hastur, don't you—"

A word like a hiss flowed from Hastur's mouth, interrupting her. His wand, still pointed at Anthony's head, glowed yellow-green. The light flashed into Anthony's eyes, burrowing into his sockets like serpents, and he screamed in agony. Hastur released his hair at last, allowing him to drop to the floor near Ligur, his hands rubbing at his eyes, which burned hot as fire in his skull. His skin crawled too—itching all along his arms and legs, his feet and hands, a terrible, excruciating itch.

He heard Hastur's laugh, his mother's shouts, but he could see nothing, could hardly feel his mother gathering him into her arms through the awful, unbearable pain in his eyes…

Suddenly, there was peace. No more pain, no more screams. Crowley slipped gratefully into a deeper unconsciousness, one devoid of bad dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all recognized the reference to Sirius Black in his animagus form! Leave it to Adam to find the friendly black dog that's been hanging around the edges of the Forest.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Wow! It's been...a while, huh. This semester was a hard one -- but there aren't so many chapters of this thing to go, so maybe I can get it mostly finished by the end of Winter Break!
> 
> If you want a brief refresher about what's been happening in the fic up to this point, go to this link: http://averygayaceinspace.tumblr.com/post/135527741111/new-chapter-of-ineffable-incantations
> 
> Happy reading, dears! And as always, comments and advice are appreciated!

Aziraphale was no novice to fear. One of his earliest memories took place on a mountain, in Switzerland of all places, where the Anchells had been vacationing.  
  
The Alps are not a wise place to lose sight of a four-year-old, even for a moment, but the appearance of an ibex had distracted both Mr. and Mrs. Anchell enough to allow little Azzie to wander to the very edge of ridge. The curious child leaned over the cliff’s edge, the wind ruffling his dark curls, and gaped at the rich greenery spread out below him. His mind flashed back to an image in a picture book he’d read a few weeks previously, in which a cherub lay on its belly on a fluffy cloud, chin cupped in its chubby little hands as it gazed down at the world below. The rather banal story told by this book, in which the cherub ventures down to Earth to assist two young children with some mundane problem or another, was scarcely worth remembering — but the pictures had enchanted young Aziraphale. He imagined he was that angel now, marveling at the vastness of the Earth below him, a Paradise unlike the one in which he had nothing to do but pluck at harp strings all day.  
  
The gasp of his father and yelp from his mother snapped through his daydream. He whirled around too quickly to see what was the matter — lost his footing on the stony crag — and toppled backwards into thin air.  
  
He felt his stomach left behind, up on the outcropping of rock as he fell — fell — fell. Time seemed to slow. His heart pumped hard and loud, shaking his eardrums, a sound that so often went unnoticed now drowning out the rush of air screaming around him as his tumbling body cut through it. One, two, three—each beat was urgent and deliberate, as if aware that only a handful more could be pumped out before the sudden, jarring end.  
  
There was no way for a human being to survive such a fall…and yet, he survived it. His parents, left shrieking on the mountaintop, scarcely had the time to take several steps towards the edge before their son…reappeared.  
  
Though in young Aziraphale’s mind, the tumble seemed to last uncounted ages, in reality he had only toppled some thirty feet out of the thousands stretching between the mountaintop and the ground before abruptly, inexplicably, he felt his descent reverse into an ascent. As if someone had pressed the rewind button on a video-tape, the air around him flipped directions, and he felt his body sucked upward, against gravity’s pull, to deposit him back, shaking and bewildered, on the cliff he had just tripped off of not ten seconds ago.  
  
Aziraphale could never say which terror had been greater — that of falling, or that of suddenly…falling no longer. The Anchells were not a particularly religious family (Mr. Anchell lit a menorah over Hanukkah and sometimes went to synagogue, Mrs. Anchell performed puja most days at a small household shrine that had been her mother’s, and they all celebrated a commercialized form of Christmas, but that was it), so none of them put enough stock in a higher power to voice any theories about divine intervention. They decided a freak air current must have gotten a hold of their boy and lifted him back up onto the rock. That was enough to satisfy Aziraphale’s parents, but young Azzie was not so sure himself. It hadn’t _felt_ like an air current. And the mystery of it terrified him, even at that age.  
  
When Aziraphale opened a letter with a red wax seal some seven years later, the miracle of his survival was explained at last: his own innate magic had reversed his descent. But the day of the event, he had not had any rationalization to fall back on, had had to accept that his still-beating heart and uncrushed skull were, in fact, evidence of a miracle, and that had frightened him as much as the fall had.  
  
Right now, though, it was the first kind of fear, the fear once felt in the midst of whipping wind and lurching stomach and plummeting body, that coursed through him as he stared at his best friend lying lifeless among clay shards and spilled soil.  
  
Adam had come for him as he was buttering himself some toast in the Great Hall. The first year, out of breath and wide-eyed, had struggled to gasp out the words: “Crowley—in trouble—in the greenhouses—” That was all Aziraphale needed to hear to stand up, book abandoned next to his untouched cup of tea, and brush past the little Gryffindor to rush from the castle and across the grounds.  
  
His ears picked up the high-pitched wailing some ten yards away from the greenhouses, and his heart, already pounding from the exertion of his mad dash, skipped a beat. Mandrakes. He kept running a few steps before a wave of dizziness forced him to stop—go any further, and he risked passing out from the sound of the mandrakes’ cry. If Crowley was indeed in there, he would be unconscious from the full brunt of the noise…or, if the mandrakes had matured enough, worse than unconscious…  
  
Aziraphale’s mind raced, trying to decide what to do, when he noticed a massive figure loping across the grounds from the direction of the Forbidden Forest, following a sleek black dog. Aziraphale felt a stirring of hope: Hagrid. If anyone could help in this situation, it would be the gargantuan groundskeeper.  
  
The dog stopped while still far off from the greenhouses as the mandrakes’ shrieks became too much for it to bear, whining with its ears pressed back against its head. Aziraphale realized it was not Fang with some confusion, but he did not have time to muse over this fact as Hagrid reached him.  
  
“I think Crowley’s in there,” he panted. Hagrid nodded, breathing hard himself.  
  
“Wait righ’ here,” he said, clapping colossal hands over his ears and making his way into the greenhouse. He reemerged a few seconds later, pink fluffy earmuffs stretched over his head to shield his ears. He tossed a pair of equally fluffy muffs Aziraphale’s way before vanishing once again beyond the doorway.  
  
Aziraphale clamped the earmuffs securely to his head, sighing in relief as the high cry of the mandrakes disappeared — even from this distance, the noise had been burrowing itself into his brain, threatening to explode into a migraine. The world suddenly muted, he hurried into the greenhouse to assist Hagrid in rescuing his friend.  
  
And there it was that his stomach dipped and twisted with that familiar shock. Crowley, unmoving in the dirt and broken pottery, drenched in foul-smelling stinksap and surrounded by mandrakes whose mouths were open in large round O’s, screams that were now silent to Aziraphale but which must be piercing through Crowley’s unprotected eardrums. Was he dead? God no, please no, surely not…  
  
Aziraphale jumped as a great hand clapped down on his shoulder — Hagrid, wielding three fresh pots, moved past him and motioned for the Ravenclaw to follow. The groundskeeper knelt down in the spilled soil, scooping it up into the new pots, and Aziraphale joined him. He picked up one writhing mandrake and thrust it rather roughly into a pot, shoveling dirt over its head.  
  
When all three mandrakes had been submerged in soil, Aziraphale yanked off his earmuffs. Turning frantically to Crowley, he placed his cheek against the Gryffindor’s lips and waited. …There. A weak exhale of breath warmed his cheek, and he let out a dry sob in relief.  
  
Drawing his wand and murmuring a spell that vanished away the sticky stinksap coating the unconscious Gryffindor, Aziraphale turned to Hagrid. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital wing,” he said, his voice wobbly. There was no telling what being exposed to the mandrakes’ cry, even such immature mandrakes, had done to Crowley’s neurology — not until Madam Pomfrey had gotten a look at him, at least.  
  
Hagrid nodded, scooped Crowley’s limp form up into his arms like it was light as a pillow. “It’s goin’ ter be all righ’ now, don’ yeh worry none,” he reassured Aziraphale. They emerged from the greenhouse and made their way back to the castle. Aziraphale glanced behind his shoulder at one point to see if the black dog was anywhere to be seen, but it had gone.  
  


* * *

  
  
The windows of the Hospital Wing had darkened by the time Crowley stirred. Aziraphale — who had left his friend’s bedside only for the time it took him to rush to his common room and grab some textbooks and parchment,* since Madam Pomfrey informed him that it would be a while before Crowley awoke — slammed his Potions book shut and watched eagerly as Crowley shifted and cracked open one golden eye.  
  
“Wha…where am I?” the Gryffindor asked groggily, eyes slowly focusing on Aziraphale.  
  
“The hospital wing,” Aziraphale explained, motioning to their surroundings. “Do you remember what happened?”  
  
Crowley scrunched up his nose (causing Aziraphale’s heart to do a strange little flip; he’d come to look forward to that adorable nose-scrunch), and then groaned. “Yep…I caused a Mimbulus Mimbletonia to vomit its rancid contents all over me, fell back into a tray of mandrakes, and…passed out.” He paused. “That explains why everything sounds like I’m hearing it through ears stuffed with cotton.” He offered a weak but debonair grin. “Real smooth of me, eh Angel?”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale replied, taking Crowley’s hand in his. “Madam Pomfrey gave you some sort of potion, she says your eardrums were perforated but they’ll be completely healed by tomorrow morning, along with any damage to your brain. Oh, speaking of…” he ended, releasing Crowley’s hand as the nurse bustled over.  
  
“So you’re awake — that’s a good sign,” she said as she fussed over Crowley, fluffing his pillows and peering into his ears. “Explain what your hearing is like right now.”  
  
Aziraphale returned to his books while Crowley and Pomfrey talked. As the nurse made ready to walk away, she said to the Ravenclaw, “You may stay for another ten minutes or so. Then the sleeping draught I just gave Mr. Crowley will kick in, and he’ll have to sleep.”  
  
“All right,” Aziraphale agreed. When she had left them alone again, the two friends were quiet for a moment. Then Aziraphale asked, “So…you’re all right now, then?”  
  
“Yeah,” Crowley said. “It was weird, the mandrakes put me in a weird dream…” he shuddered, leading Aziraphale to understand that it had not been a pleasant dream. “I’m guessing it stopped once you and Hagrid rescued me. Thanks for that, by the way.”  
  
“If you, er, want to talk about it…” Aziraphale ventured awkwardly.  
  
Crowley didn’t say something for a long moment. Aziraphale wasn’t really expecting an answer, and wasn’t sure he really wanted one, but then: “It was just a memory from my childhood. The day I…the day _this_ happened to me.” He motioned to his eyes. They were bare of their usual shades, which were folded neatly on the bedside table.  
  
Aziraphale kept quiet. Crowley had never spoken about the strange, serpentine quality of his eyes, and Aziraphale had never asked. Such was the nature of their friendship – until, apparently, this year.  
  
“It was a curse,” Crowley explained. “You know my family is known for its involvement in the Dark Arts.” It was a statement, not a question – everyone knew about the Crowleys. A proudly Pureblood family, known for the Dark Arts indeed; they’d been some of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s staunchest supporters when he was still in power. “Well, my family wasn’t exactly _happy_ about my mother’s choice to evade You-Know-Who and marry a muggleborn. So after his fall, they came after her. After us. And cursed me.”  
  
Aziraphale was studying Crowley’s eyes with renewed curiosity: he had always wondered of course, but a curse? That _was_ interesting. Crowley suddenly looked his way, and their eyes met; Aziraphale lowered his gaze quickly, face flushing.  
  
"There was more to it,” Crowley continued. He seemed unable to stop talking. “The curse was designed to destroy, slowly eating away at its victim – my skin was eaten away by scales. It hurt like hell.” He winced at the memory. “Still have some of them, in fact.” He lifted the shirt of the pajamas Madam Pomfrey had changed him into: there, along his waistline, was vague shimmer of scales. Aziraphale stared in fascination, unable to look away or even make a pretense at subtlety. “I was in St. Mungo’s for a month, luckily Mum had the money and connections to – why am I even telling you this?” Crowley interrupted himself, a vexed look crossing his face. “Is this medicine making me woozy, or something?”  
  
“It’s fine to talk about it, dear,” Aziraphale said. “We are friends, after all. And I…honestly, I am just so relieved you’re all right.” He took Crowley’s hand again. “Seeing you on the ground, well…I imagine I felt how you felt in our Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson a while back. You know, when your boggart was _me_. My corpse.”  
  
“Oh, do we haveto bring that up again?” Crowley said with a groan; “that was so embarrassing.”  
  
“Embarrassing?” Aziraphale asked, surprised. “I mean, I was certainly surprised, you know — it’s generally the mark of a very emotionally mature wizard or witch, to have a, er, dead manifestation of a person from their life as their boggart. And no offense, dear boy, but ‘mature’ is not the first word I’d use for you.”  
  
“Thanks,” said Crowley drily. “Then you’ll be glad to know it wasn’t a matter of ‘maturity’ that you were my boggart. More like selfishness, honestly.” He stuck a finger in his right ear and twisted it around, as if trying to get a stubborn bit of wax out. “Everything still sounds so weird,” he commented, seeming to lose the thread of the conversation. Perhaps whatever Pomfrey had given him really was affecting him.  
  
Aziraphale was intrigued by this unusually talkative version of Crowley, and pressed on. “Selfishness?” he prompted.  
  
“Huh? Yeah. I’m afraid of you dying less out of any sort of _nobleness_ , more just a…I’m afraid of being alone, okay?” Crowley’s gaze was towards the window, which was too dark to see anything out of, and his voice sounded far away. “You’re the closest friend I’ve got. The first friend I had, coming to this place. You remember?”  
  
“Of course.” Crowley had been shunned when they were first new to Hogwarts — a Gryffindor with a bunch of Death Eater relatives? It didn’t endear him to his housemates, yet his mother’s status as blood traitor kept the Slytherins from being chummy with him either. Aziraphale had never been one to pay attention to the gossip of other students, however, and so he had come to befriend Crowley without knowing much of the Gryffindor’s history at first.  
  
Crowley jerked his head with a sudden motion from the window to look into Aziraphale’s eyes. There was a hint of fever in his yellow irises, and his pupils were dilated. He gripped Aziraphale’s arm with one hand, brought the other to touch Aziraphale’s face. “I was scared I was a monster, you know,” he said earnestly. “Before you started talking to me. I thought no one was going to want me as a friend, ever. Losing you would be so…so horrible.” His golden eyes filled over with tears, to the Ravenclaw’s alarm.  
  
“Er…” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably under Crowley’s burst of emotion, worming his arm out from his friend’s grasp. “Yes, well, no worries, you’re not going to lose me, I’m just going to go get Madam Pomfrey, okay? I think you may have had too much medicine…”  
  
“I’m right here,” came the nurse’s cool voice from behind him. “Not to worry: this sleeping draught is rather strong, it can bring about powerful emotions and a touch of clinginess. Mr. Crowley needs something strong to get through a night of his eardrums healing.” She placed the back of her hand against his forehead. “He’s fine, he just needs to get to sleep now.” She looked at Aziraphale. “Off you go.”  
  
Relieved, the Ravenclaw gathered up his textbooks. “Good night, Crowley,” he said before hurrying off, but the Gryffindor had already sunk back among the pillows, eyes shut, snoring softly from a half-open mouth.  


* * *

  
  
_Footnotes_ :

*The trip had taken longer than he had hoped it would, because the bronze eagle that guarded the Ravenclaw entrance asked him a particularly tricky riddle and he’d struggled a good five minutes to come up with an appropriate response: “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” “That is hardly _fair_ , Lewis Carroll wrote that riddle without an answer! I don’t see why _I_ should come up with a good answer when _he_ didn’t!”

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genderfluid Crowley!! and other stuff

Crowley looked herself over in the dormitory’s mirror (no matter her gender at any given moment, she was ever vain about her appearance) and her freshly-crimsoned lips turned upward at what she saw. _Damn_ , she looked good in a skirt.  
  
She’d awoken in the hospital wing half an hour beforehand to a murmured conversation.  
  
“As soon as he’s up,” she’d listened to Pomfrey say as she stayed burrowed in blankets a moment longer, “let him know he’s free to go.”  
  
“Wonderful, thank you,” came Aziraphale’s voice, “he’s missed out on a lot of studying time already—”  
  
“ _She_ , actually,” Crowley spoke up, sitting up and stretching luxuriously.  
  
The nurse and the Ravenclaw looked over, and Aziraphale offered Crowley a smile. “ _She’s_ missed a lot of studying time,” he corrected himself.  
  
“Well, Ms. Crowley, any hearing problems?” Pomfrey inquired. “Or head pain?”  
  
“Nope. I feel great.”  
  
Released from the hospital wing, Crowley had split off from Aziraphale to make a stop in Gryffindor Tower, promising to join him at breakfast shortly. Once through the Fat Lady’s portrait, she’d climbed the winding steps up to the fifth-year boys’ dormitory (when explaining her genderfluidity to Professor Dumbledore a few years back, he’d asked if she’d like to switch between the girls’ and boys’ rooms or even move permanently to the gender neutral dormitory, but she’d decided to stay in the boys’ dorm all the time: she was male for the majority of the time anyway, and moving around seemed more trouble than it was worth; besides, she liked sharing a room with Fred, George, and Lee).  
  
Sauntering through the doorway on the fifth-years’ landing, Crowley had been surprised to find all the beds empty. The only thing that usually got any of the room’s inhabitants up before noon on a Sunday morning was the possibility of a good prank, so she assumed her roommates were off wreaking havoc somewhere. Shrugging her shoulders, she had proceeded to dig the clothes and accessories that made her feel more feminine from the bottom of her trunk.  
  
Twenty minutes later, her look was complete and she stood before the mirror appraising herself. Her hair was the same length as ever, uneven layers stopping just above her shoulders, but she’d combed her dark fringe into what she considered to be a more feminine style. Her eyeliner just needed a quick touch-up and she’d be good to go — while she occasionally wore some makeup even when presenting masculine, she didn’t wear eye makeup often enough to be an expert at applying it. There wasn’t much point in bringing out one’s eyes when one hid them behind shades every day, after all. Today, though, she thought she’d go without the sunglasses for once.  
  
As she was lowering her eyeliner brush, she jumped at the sudden appearance of two faces with vivid orange hair behind her reflection. She turned to greet Fred and George Weasley as they entered the dormitory.  
  
“Oh! Would you look at that, George,” Fred said, “we have a lady in our midst.” He approached Crowley and took her hand, bowing to kiss it facetiously.  
  
“I’m not sure ‘lady’ is the right word for her,” George joked. Crowley punched his arm lightly with a laugh.  
  
“Shut up, you,” she said. “Just tell me if I look okay — did I put the eye shadow on too heavy?”  
  
George considered Crowley’s golden eyelids. “It looks very nice, actually: really makes your eyes pop. No shades today?” he asked curiously.  
  
“Yeah, thought I’d try something different.” Crowley wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t feeling as self-conscious about her serpentine eyes as she usually was.  
  
Fred was regarding her thoughtfully, one hand under his chin. “…What?” Crowley asked as he continued to stare. “Is my makeup smudged?”  
  
“You can get into the girls’ dormitories, I reckon,” he stated slowly.  
  
“Yeah, I should be able to,” Crowley agreed. “So what?”  
  
“I’ve always wanted to get in there,” Fred continued. Boys were unable to get into the girls’ tower: the staircase transformed into a slippery chute whenever one tried.  
  
“Oh, that’s brilliant!” George clapped his hands together in excitement, suddenly getting where his brother was going. “Why have we never thought of this before?”  
  
“Thought of _what_ before?” Crowley demanded, not following their train of thought.  
  
“You know, mate,” Fred prompted. “You should never waste a golden opportunity when one presents itself.”  
  
Then it clicked. “Ohhh. I see.” Crowley grinned wickedly. “What should I _do_ , do you think?”  
  
“You could enchant all the furniture so it’s stuck to the ceiling,” George suggested.  
  
“Do you know a charm for that?” Crowley asked interestedly. She knew of some hover charms and the like, but none that lasted very long beyond the point of casting without being maintained by the caster.  
  
“Ummm…no.”  
  
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Fred answered; “normally I love to strategize but you should go fast, before anyone returns from breakfast.”  
  
Crowley grabbed her wand and hurried off, down the winding staircase of the boys’ tower and to the foot of the girls’ tower. She tried the first step gingerly. Placed a foot on the second. It held — no slide. Why _hadn’t_ they thought of this before?  
  
She climbed the stairs till she was on the fifth landing, where Fred and George’s Quidditch friends Angelina and Alicia lived, along with the frankly frightening Scarlett. Crowley hesitated a moment in the threshold: did she really want to get on the infamous “Red Horror’s” bad side? Well, as long as she wasn’t caught, all would be fine. She opened the door to the bedroom: coast clear.  
  
She pondered what, exactly, to do. If there were time to plan, to gather supplies, she was sure she could pull off a spectacular prank. Maybe later she could return — if she played her cards right and didn’t get caught this time around, she could come back, perhaps later in the day. So what to do now that wouldn’t be noticed? Crowley grinned; this sort of mission was just her cup of tea: she specialized in mischief so subtle as to go scarcely recognized, reaping baffled irritation and frustration that lasted a while rather than one brief explosion of annoyance.  
  
She emerged triumphant from the Gryffindor girls’ tower only a couple minutes later. Fred and George were waiting for her in the common room area, joined by Lee Jordan.  
  
“What’d you do?” they questioned her eagerly as she sat down in their midst.  
  
“Oh, nothing much,” she said airily, “just moved all of their furniture the tiniest bit over. Some other small changes, teensy tweaks in décor.”  
  
The three boys stared at her, confused. “…And?” Lee prompted.  
  
“Oh, you know,” she said, “how it is when things are just a little bit off — not enough so that you can tell what the problem is, but enough that you _feel_ things are wrong.” She thought of the infinitesimal changes she’d made with pride — a light green pillow turned dark green, posters and books rearranged, folded clothes unfolded and opened trunks closed — and smirked to imagine the slow build of frustration in the targets of her prank. “They’ll all end up with some stubbed toes over the moved furniture, at the very least.”  
  
“Not my style,” Fred said, “but I’d call that first raid a success!” They all cheered. George clapped Crowley on the back.  
  
“Now I’m going to go get breakfast,” Crowley said, “I’m starving.” Plus, she thought guiltily, she’d left Aziraphale waiting quite a while now. Not that she thought the Ravenclaw was waiting for her arrival to tuck in to his meal, but Aziraphale tended to get disgruntled by such things as tardiness.*  
  
Reaching the Great Hall, Crowley caught sight of Aziraphale sitting alone at the Ravenclaw table, several half-emptied plates and an open book in front of him. Striding towards her friend, she was intercepted by Newton Pulsifer, who was wearing a decidedly dejected expression.  
  
“Hey, glad to see you’re all right, Aziraphale told me about yesterday’s mandrake incident — oh, lovely skirt,” Newt rambled distractedly. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that asking Anathema on a date to Hogsmeade didn’t turn out so well, just thought you should know.”  
  
Crowley remembered the conversation between herself and the Hufflepuff a few days back, in which she’d told him to go ahead and ask Anathema out. “She turned you down?” she said sympathetically.  
  
“No, actually. She said of course she’d go.”  
  
“Oh, then…what’s the issue?” Crowley responded, baffled.  
  
Newt rubbed his hand over his closely cropped hair.** “She said of course she’d go with me, because it was _destined_ to happen…that there was a prophesy about us…” he paused a moment, exasperated. “I don’t know how to explain it, but she — look, she had this book, okay? By some old woman from centuries back, named Agatha Nutty, or something, and it _was_ in there, a prophecy about _us!_ Becoming, you know, an _item!_ ”  
  
“That is…wow,” Crowley said clumsily. “I’m sorry Newt, I, I don’t know what to say.” She briefly considered pulling Aziraphale’s signature consolation move, an awkward pat on the shoulder accompanied by a murmured _there, there_ , but decided against it. “A book of prophecies, huh? Is that, really so bad?”  
  
“Yes!” Newt exclaimed, distraught. “I want her to like me for _me_ , you know? I don’t want her to go out with me just because some long-dead lady’s _book_ told her to!” He sighed. “Anyway, I gotta go, just thought I’d tell you how it turned out. See you later, Crowley.” Newt hurried out of the Great Hall, tall shoulders hunched; Crowley watched him go somewhat guiltily, wishing she’d known what to say to comfort him, then continued her walk to the Ravenclaw table.  
  
“Took you long enough to get here,” Aziraphale huffed as Crowley sat down beside him. “What was Newton so down about?”  
  
Crowley was a little disappointed that Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice her makeover at all — she’d been hoping for something that at least _bordered_ on a compliment — but she explained about the prophecies.  
  
“Huh,” was Aziraphale’s only response, a thoughtful look settling on his face.  
  
“I guess that explains how Anathema always seems to know what’s up before it happens,” she said. She felt bad for Newt, but that was _one_ mystery solved, at least.  
  
“Indeed. Such a book would be very, very rare…I do wonder if Anathema would allow me a look at it…”  
  
________  
  
  
An hour later found Crowley, Aziraphale, and Anathema sitting in one of the castle’s many courtyards, parchment weighed down by books to keep them from escaping into the slight but chilly breeze. It wasn’t the most ideal day to be outside, but Anathema preferred being outdoors to in, and Aziraphale had followed after her with the hopes of getting more information about her mysterious book out of her. Crowley didn’t mind being outside, since she’d found a warm pool of sunlight to sprawl out in and had draped a heavy cloak over her robes. She tried to focus on Potions as the others talked.  
  
“Why did Newton have to tell the _bibliophile_ about Agnes?” Anathema complained. Newt was not with them; he’d disappeared to who knew where, presumably to sulk.  
  
“Just explain to me where you got it,” Aziraphale begged.  
  
“It’s a family heirloom,” Anathema gave in. “Agnes Nutter’s prophecies have been passed down her line of descendants since the seventeenth century, when she was burnt at the stake for being a witch. She was a _true_ seer,” she sniffed, “unlike that charlatan up in her incense-filled tower who makes us look at _tarot cards_.”  
  
“So can I just look at it some time?” Aziraphale wheedled. “You can be the one holding it, even, I’d just love to see —”  
  
“We’ll see,” Anathema interrupted. “Now shut up, I need to work on an essay for McGonagall.”  
  
With a huff, Aziraphale turned to his books, and soon the courtyard was quiet but for the scratching of quills and turning of pages.  
  
Quiet, that was, until laughter forewarned the approach of a certain group of first-years.  
  
“Ugh, come _on_ ,” Aziraphale complained as the Them marched into view. “Get your own courtyard.”  
  
“Hi, Crowley!” Adam called cheerfully, ignoring Aziraphale. The eleven-year-old cocked his head at the older Gryffindor. “I like your skirt!” he said politely. Then he realized Crowley didn’t have her sunglasses on and gasped in delight. “And your eyes!”  
  
The Them didn’t pay her much mind, however; they settled down in the slightly damp grass (it had rained the night before) and seemed content to keep to themselves, ignoring the older students — expect for one of them, the skinny Ravenclaw one with the thick black glasses and piercing eyes, who was gawking at Crowley.  
  
“What?” she demanded at last. The little Ravenclaw — Wensley, Crowley remembered — had the decency to look embarrassed.  
  
“My apologies, I just thought you were…never mind.”  
  
Crowley felt a flash of annoyance but quickly forced it down; she could tell the kid didn’t mean to offend. It was easier to explain once and for all: “I’m a guy a lot of the time, yeah. But today I’m a girl. So I dressed to present that. It’s called being genderfluid.”  
  
Wensley’s eyes were widening as if an epiphany were dawning behind those square black frames. “You mean…you can pick?”  
  
“It’s not _picking_ , exactly. It’s just how I am. But yeah, just because you’re told you’re one gender growing up doesn’t mean you have to stick with that gender all the time or even at all.” In fact, Crowley had been assigned female at birth, but from the age of four had leaned towards being male. A few years back she had realized that she was not a trans man after all but genderfluid, and the recognition had been a relief for a trans guy who couldn’t understand why he occasionally still felt like a girl. Embracing her femininity on female days had made her feel much more comfortable with herself.  
  
Adam was paying attention to the conversation with interest. “That makes sense,” he said slowly. “People are always tellin’ us we can be anything we want, if we set our minds to it. So why be a boy if you don’t wanna be a boy?”  
  
“ _I_ don’t want to be a boy!” Wensley exclaimed suddenly. “I _never_ have. I just had no idea I didn’t have to be.”  
  
“Well then,” Adam said diplomatically, “do you wanna be a girl?”  
  
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Pepper chimed in; “we _are_ amazing.”  
  
“No, I don’t really fancy myself a girl,” Wensley said thoughtfully.  
  
“Well, that’s fine,” Aziraphale said. Crowley glanced over at him, surprised; she hadn’t thought the Ravenclaw was listening. “You can be neither — I don’t tend to think of myself as male, either.”  
  
Crowley surveyed her friend, surprised. Aziraphale had never told her that!  
  
“Agender, nonbinary, neutrois, genderqueer,” Aziraphale listed off, “are some words people use. And you can keep using ‘he’ pronouns like I do, or use ‘they,’ or even make some up.”  
  
Wensley looked thrilled at this wealth of new information. “ ‘They’ sounds good to me,” they said.  
  
“Well then, that’s what we’ll use for you from now on,” Adam announced decisively. “Everybody hear that?” He looked at Pepper and Brian. They both nodded vigorously.  
  
“Whatever makes you happy, Wensley!” Brian said. “Now, does anyone see a napkin somewhere? I had a biscuit in it and now I can’t find it…”  
  
“If you had told me I’d be spending fifth year babysitting a bunch of eleven year olds…” Anathema grumbled as the Them began to fight over one crumbling biscuit in a rumpled napkin. “Agnes certainly didn’t predict this.”  
  


__________________

  
_Footnotes_ :

*Though of course when _he_ was the one who left _Crowley_ waiting it was quite all right — not his fault at all, a book had distracted him or he’d been sidetracked by a particularly tough spell he was trying to master, surely Crowley _understood._

**For the first few years of Newt’s time at Hogwarts, his hair had been an endless mess. It wasn’t the poor boy’s fault, he simply had never met a barber who knew how to deal with his hair. An intimidating Slytherin with the unlikely name of Anathema had finally taken pity on him their third year, and given him a no-nonsense buzz that suited his face pretty well.


	21. Chapter 21

As the rest of October whirled by, the weather grew stormier and piles of schoolwork developed into mountains for the fifth-years of Hogwarts. Everyone was feeling the strain, but few worse than Aziraphale. He ate less than usual, and hardly slept — when he did, his dreams revolved around forgetting essay deadlines and failing OWLs.

A certain third-year was equally stressed: Aziraphale found Hermione Granger hurrying around the library at all hours of the day, spending even more time in there than he did himself. How she had time to go to classes or eat meals was beyond him, since she seemed a permanent fixture of a certain table tucked away among some secluded shelves. He knew she was enrolled in far more classes than the average student, too; he frequently wondered if she ever had a moment to sleep. The bags under her increasingly frantic brown eyes seemed to suggest that no, she didn't.

He thought of the younger student at lunch one Friday afternoon (the day before Halloween, as it happened), when he glanced over at the Gryffindor table to notice she wasn't beside her two friends, Ron Weasley and the famed Harry Potter. He was heading to the library after his meal, and was sure he would find her there, so he wrapped a roll and some grapes up in a napkin to bring to her.

When he rounded the corner of the library that led to Hermione's usual table, he did indeed spot her dark bushy hair — but, oh dear, were her shoulders shaking? Sure enough, as he drew near the sounds of sniffling and muffled sobs became clear.

For a fleeting instant, Aziraphale considered turning around and pretending he hadn't seen. He just wasn't _good_ with tears, didn't know what to _do_. But he was still holding the napkin of food he'd brought her, and, well, food always cheered _him_ up when he was down, so he squared his shoulders and walked forward.

"Hermione?" he said gently. "Are you all right?"

Her shaking shoulders froze, and she swiped her hands at her teary eyes before turning to face him.

"A-Aziraphale. Hello. Sorry I'm such a — a mess," she stammered out, clearly embarrassed to have been caught crying. She made a valiant effort at sounding composed. "I'm fine. I'm just a little stressed, is all."

"I don't blame you," Aziraphale said sympathetically. "Here, I thought you might be hungry," he said hurriedly, presenting the napkin.

"That was nice of you," Hermione said with a slight sniffle. "Thank you." Then she seemed to come to her senses. "No, wait! Madam Pince will kick us both out if she sees that we've got food in here!"

"Ah, right," Aziraphale said guiltily. He was a stickler for rules, of course — when he remembered them, and when it was convenient. "Well, you can always…save it for later?"

"Thanks," Hermione said again, and leaned down to shove the rolled up napkin into her bag. Aziraphale hoped the grapes wouldn't burst everywhere.

As she straightened back up in her seat, the candlelight caught along a gold chain around her neck. Aziraphale glanced at the ornament dangling from the chain. Did a double take. Stared.

" _Where did you get that?"_ he gasped.

Hermione looked down and let out a choked shriek. She quickly lifted the chain and stuffed the whole thing under her robes, but Aziraphale knew what he had seen.

"A _time-turner_ , Hermione?" he said, taking care to keep his voice hushed, in case Madam Pince was lurking around the bookshelves. "Surely you of all people know how many laws ban those!"

For a moment, the third-year looked ready to burst into tears again, but then her gaze turned to steel. "Don't you tell _anyone_ , Aziraphale," she hissed, "or I swear I'll hex you."

The Ravenclaw backed away instinctively — a blazing in the girl's dark eyes attested to her seriousness, and everyone in the school knew of Hermione Granger's magical prowess.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Aziraphale assured her hurriedly, "but if you obtained it illegally, well…" he thought quickly, "perhaps it's best if you let me take it off your hands." He wanted that time-turner — they were so rare that it was very possible that he would never have an opportunity to examine one again.

Hermione glared. "You think I broke the law?" she demanded. "Professor McGonagall gave me this time-turner, if you really need to know," she said haughtily. "It is perfectly legal, and none of your business. Now excuse, me," she shoved her books into her bag and stood, "I need to be going."

She left Aziraphale standing alone. He regretted upsetting her when he'd just been trying to help, but what he regretted even more was the fact that such a fascinating artifact was so near and yet out of his grasp. If McGonagall had given it to her with orders to keep it to herself, there was no way Hermione would ever let him take a look.

He shook his head and wandered to the other side of the library, heading for the Ancient Runes section to find a book for his essay.  
  


* * *

  
The next day was not just Halloween, but also the first Hogsmeade visit of the year. It could not have come soon enough: a trip out of the castle and its grounds was just what the homework-harangued students needed.

Anathema, Newt, Crowley, and Aziraphale all headed out together into the crisp air. Anathema walked to Crowley's left, and Newton kept as far from her as possible, on Aziraphale's right — the Hufflepuff had refused to treat this outing as a date after Anathema had treated it like fate, something that he didn't seem about to get over any time soon. The two friends had been treating each other very civilly for the past couple weeks, but very distantly.

Aziraphale looked over his list of things he wanted to buy as they walked. He needed a new quill for himself, and he'd been neglecting writing home because of all of his schoolwork, so he thought he'd send his parents some treats from Honeydukes. His mother, being a squib, didn't like many reminders of the magical world she'd been rejected from, but she had a weak spot for cauldron cakes.

Aziraphale glanced behind him at one point and noticed Hermione Granger walking with her Weasley friend; their eyes met and Hermione looked away quickly. Aziraphale quickly involved himself in a conversation with Crowley — who looked very nice today, he noted to himself. She'd not worn her sunglasses in a while and, being in a feminine vein for a longer period of time than usual, had gotten the hang of eyeliner at last, so that the elegant wings sprouting from either side of her golden eyes were actually symmetrical.

After a morning of visiting various shops — Tomes and Scrolls for quills, the post office to buy owl treats, Honeydukes for all sorts of sweets, and Zonko's Joke Shop, which Aziraphale only entered on the condition that Crowley then accompany him into Madam Puddifoot's to pick up some tea — the four friends settled down into a booth in The Three Broomsticks, tankards of Butterbeer foaming in front of them.

They sat in awkward silence for the first a few minutes because Anathema had flirted with Madam Rosmerta when she brought them their Butterbeer. As the vivacious pub owner swaggered away in her shimmering heels, Newton had snapped, "Let me guess, your Nutty ancestor predicted you'd get with Rosmerta too?" The gibe had startled Aziraphale, since the Hufflepuff was usually polite; he supposed it shocked Anathema too because it took her a full ten seconds to come up with an icy retort.

The ice thawed after a few minutes, however; no one could sullenly sip Butterbeer for long before the bubbly drink warmed through all chilly limbs and hearts. Soon they were chatting away, and even Newt put aside the hurt he was nursing to laugh at Anathema's reenactment of Snape's attempt to criticize Scarlett Zuigiber in a Potions lesson a few days previously.

Crowley opened the chocolate frogs she had purchased at Honeydukes — they were her favorite sweet, not for the frogs themselves, but for the cards of famous witches and wizards they came with. She had an impressive collection of them on the wall behind her four-poster bed, which had always reminded Aziraphale of his cousin Gabby back in the muggle world, who collected football cards with a passion.

Crowley had bought more frogs than she could eat in one sitting, so she divvied them out amongst the four of them while keeping the cards for herself, and soon they were all sitting in a delicious stupor, bellies filled to the brim with Butterbeer and chocolate.

Eventually they headed back to the castle, arms loaded with purchases, and once they were inside they went their separate ways.

Turning down a narrow corridor on his way to the Ravenclaw common room, Aziraphale almost collided with Raven Sable, a fellow fifth year whom he did not particularly like. Sable hung around that pasty Ravenclaw in Aziraphale's year, Chalky, for one thing — and what was more, he tended to make aggravating comments about food and dieting. He was a prefect of Slytherin House along with Anathema, and she constantly complained about how often Sable went to Professor Dumbledore to discuss getting the house elves to stop supplying the dining hall with so many desserts.

"Ah! Pardon me, Sable," Aziraphale said politely, but failed to keep some of the distaste from his voice.

"Anchell," Sable acknowledged him with a quick nod of his head. The slim Slytherin boy stroked his short dark beard (the kind teenagers were always trying to grow and that they'd be better off shaving) as he surveyed the packages in Aziraphale's arms with interest. "Honeydukes?" he inquired. "You know, I have a certain meal plan that I could explain to you, if you like—"

"Bugger off," Aziraphale said hotly, shoving past the Slytherin. He winced as he did so, aware that the prefect could discipline him for his rudeness if he so wished. Luckily, however, Sable allowed him to pass.

Feeling extra insolent, Aziraphale pulled a chocoball from one of his bags and bit into it, turning so Sable could see. The prefect rolled his eyes and headed off in the opposite direction, leaving Aziraphale to walk on triumphant.

After dropping off his goods in his dormitory, Aziraphale went to the library, staying there lost in his textbooks until the time came for the traditional Halloween feast.

The feast arrived, delicious as ever. Aziraphale found it difficult to focus on his food, however, because his mind kept returning to the pile of schoolwork waiting for him. He could work all of tomorrow and he would _still_ scarcely make a dent in it. Halfway through dessert, he got up to go back to the library, too anxious about his assignments to properly enjoy his pie.

He stopped by the Gryffindor table to tell Crowley good night, but she wasn't there.

"She said she wasn't feeling well," George informed him, "so she headed to bed, I think."

"Oh well, tell her I hope she feels better," Aziraphale said, and made his way out of the Great Hall.

He hadn't spent more than half an hour in the library before someone came running in. "Aziraphale! There you are!"

"Hallo, Newt," Aziraphale said distractedly, not pausing in his frenzied writing.

"Aziraphale, we've been looking for you," Newt told him. "Everyone's meant to go back to the Great Hall. There's been an attack, on Gryffindor Tower—Sirius Black—"

Aziraphale felt his gut twist. Gryffindor Tower? " _Crowley_ ," he gasped. "Do you know if Crowley's all right?"

"I…I'm not sure, Az — " The Ravenclaw didn't stay to hear any more; he rushed from the library, sprinting as fast as he could.

Crowley was in Gryffindor Tower. While Aziraphale assumed she was hardly the target, if she'd gotten in Black's way…and if Black recognized her for the "blood traitor" she was…an enemy of Black's precious dead Dark Lord…He increased his speed, running faster than he'd thought possible.

He reached the seventh floor, panting and sweaty. Saw the Fat Lady's empty portrait, clawed and tattered. Reached to pull back the frame — "Angel!"

Aziraphale whirled. "Oh, thank God," he gasped.

"Az, it'sss fine, I'm fine — I was looking for you," Crowley said, hurrying to her friend's side. "Nobody was hurt, okay? They're pretty sure Black got away, but he didn't hurt anyone." Aziraphale collapsed into Crowley's arms, too breathless to stand any longer. Crowley held him tight.

"All students are to sleep in the Great Hall," boomed Head Boy Percy Weasley's voice. "You two, go on."

" _You_ go on," Crowley snapped. "Just give us a minute."

"You ready?" Crowley asked a long moment later. Aziraphale nodded, still too breathless to speak, but leaning on Crowley's arm, they made their way to the Great Hall.

"Seems sssilly to worry so much about _me_ , Az," Crowley joked as they descended the main staircase, but the slight lisp she always got when shaken gave her away. "You know me—I can take care of myssself just fine."

"I know," Aziraphale said, having regained his breath somewhat. "But, _Sirius Black_."

"I know," Crowley said, the bravado gone from her voice. There was nothing funny about Sirius Black.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...I thought I couldn't go any fluffier than I have in the past but we did it, folks. We broke the fluff threshold. This is way beyond mere fluff, I don't even know what it is. Hope you enjoy sappy bed-sharing ridiculousness.

Crowley didn't sleep much that night. She didn't think many students did, too anxious about Black and excited by the setting — the Great Hall looked different than it did during meals, the space-black ceiling aglow with swirling galaxies and strings of stars. Along with thinking about how an escaped murderer had been loose in the castle and marveling at the constellations glittering overhead, Crowley had a third thing keeping her awake: the curly hair currently tickling her chin, belonging to a lightly snoring figure snuggled up beside her.

Dumbledore had conjured up squishy purple sleeping bags for all of the students, and Aziraphale and Crowley had laid theirs out side by side (Anathema and Newt, as prefects, were set patrolling, so they were not near). Without having to discuss it, they each unzipped the zipper along one edge of their sleeping bag, so that the bags opened into each other, allowing them to hold hands as they lay there. Unexpectedly, Aziraphale had nestled his head into Crowley's neck and promptly fallen asleep. For a few minutes, Crowley's heart had gone haywire and she'd scarcely dared to breathe, scared of disturbing her sleeping friend. Soon enough she relaxed, though, and simply enjoyed the feeling of his breath on her neck and the gentle rise-and-fall of his chest against her side.

Crowley looked down at Aziraphale and felt her heart swell in a way she wasn't accustomed to. Viewed from this angle, he looked cherubic, all plump cheeks and innocence. Then she looked upwards, towards the stars, and fell into a sort of half-sleep, imagining that the two of them were floating serenely through the gentle seas of space.

The next morning dawned across the ceiling, blushing out from the eastern edge until the entire surface was stained a deep rose. Crowley nudged her friend awake so that he could watch the sunrise too. Aziraphale groaned a bit but obediently cracked his sleep-caked eyes open to gaze heavenwards at the newborn sky.

By the end of the next week, the chaos brought on by what some students dubbed the Black-attack had died down. Classes continued in full swing, bringing many fifth-years closer to the brink of a complete breakdown — and Aziraphale led the collapse.

One day Crowley found him sitting on the floor of an empty corridor, surrounded by books and staring at a stone in the wall like it held the key to academic success.

"Er…Az? Az. _Aziraphale._ "

"Huh?" The Ravenclaw jumped and turned from his scrutiny of the wall. "Oh. Crowley." His eyes were bloodshot.

"You want to go sit somewhere with…actual chairs?" he asked (Crowley had shifted back to being male with the passing week, and was using _he_ pronouns again).

"Yes, right. I was just…my books fell," he explained, gesturing to the books all around him. He began gathering up his things, and Crowley knelt to help him.

"How about we head to Gryffindor Common Room?" Crowley suggested; he'd been heading there himself and it was only a floor above them.

"All right," Aziraphale said absently, allowing Crowley to help him up.

They made their way to the Fat Lady's portrait — or rather, the place on the wall where the Fat Lady's portrait usually hung. For now, a painting of a knight named Sir Cadogan was filling in as guardian of Gryffindor Tower. It had quickly become apparent that Cadogan was no Fat Lady: while she usually kept her interactions with students civil and concise, the knight challenged all passersby and bellowed insults at anyone who couldn't remember his constantly-changing passwords.

"Speak ye right and enter, else fall where you stand!" the painted knight shouted as Crowley and Aziraphale approached, brandishing his sword at them.

"Galahad," Crowley said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes — now that he rarely wore his sunglasses indoors, people could actually _see_ that motion.

"Wrong, knave!" Cadogan roared, and waved his sword about as if it could reach through the canvas. "Now prepare to meet your doom!"

"Wait, er — tantivy!" Crowley said, remembering that the password had been updated _again_ just this morning.

"Ah, right you are!" the knight cried, lowering his blade and lifting his visor. "In you go, then." His portrait swung open to let the two students in.

They settled down at a small table a short ways off from the fireplace — Crowley glared at Harry Potter and his little gang, sprawled out in his favorite spot directly in front of the fire, as he passed them by. Aziraphale immediately sunk into an essay-writing frenzy, quill scratching across parchment at an impressive speed. Crowley was a little slower to begin work, soaking in the warmth of the nearby flames and gazing around the room for a while before finally cracking open a textbook.

They worked well into the night. Crowley was not accustomed to such focused fits of industry, but all of the fifth-years had so much to do that even he was beginning to feel the first stirrings of anxiety at all the pressure.

A little before eleven, Crowley glanced up from an astoundingly boring old tome about the giant wars to find Aziraphale sitting still for the first time all evening, quill down and desolation in his shadow-rimmed eyes.

"I can't do it, Crowley," Aziraphale said, staring at nothing. "I simply…cannot do it."

"Do what, all your homework? Pass the OWLs?" Crowley said.

"Yes, yes, everything," Aziraphale replied, waving a hand vaguely to indicate _everything_. A wild look was growing in his eyes.

"Listen, Aziraphale," Crowley said, making eye contact with his distraught friend. "You _can_ do it. You will do it. Students have been freaking out about the OWLs for years and yet plenty of them pass. If they can do it — hell, if _I_ can do it, and I think I can — then you can too."

Crowley was surprised at how well his little pep talk worked. Aziraphale's shoulders relaxed, the frenzied gleam in his eye dimmed, and he managed a small smile.

"Thank you, dear," he said. "I needed that."

"What you need," Crowley said, standing up, "is a good night's sleep. When was the last time you had one of those?"

"Oh, let's see…I'm not sure…" Aziraphale admitted.

"Well, you're going to get one tonight," Crowley told him; "I've got just the thing for it." He bounded away to the boys' dormitory. When he came back down, he held a small bottle in his hand.

"What is that?" Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

"Don't worry, it's nothing illegal," Crowley promised, "just a sleeping drought. Remember when I was in the hospital wing? I didn't use the whole bottle Pomfrey gave me, figured I'd save it for a later date."

"Ah, so it's not illegal, you just stole it," Aziraphale said drily. "I think I'll pass."

"Come on, Az," Crowley wheedled, "it's obvious you're exhausted. If you could just get some sleep I bet you could concentrate on your work much better tomorrow."

"Oh, all right." Aziraphale snatched the bottle from Crowley's hands. Before Crowley could stop him, he chugged down the entire thing.

"…I was going to say wait till you got back to Ravenclaw Tower, but that works too," Crowley said. "It's a pretty fast-acting potion."

"Oops," Aziraphale said sheepishly.

"I guess we should get you back fast, then."

Aziraphale checked his watch and yelped. "It's long past curfew," he said despairingly. "Maybe I'll just sleep here."

"I don't think other Gryffindors will be too pleased about that," Crowley said, glancing around the Common Room at the smattering of students spread about it. But he knew that getting Aziraphale to Ravenclaw Tower uncaught was next to impossible, especially after the increase in security that had followed Black's attack.

"You have such lovely hair," Aziraphale said dreamily, causing Crowley to whip his head back towards him. "I often get such an urge to run my fingers through it."

Crowley felt his face flushing, and saw Aziraphale's dark cheeks redden as well. "Now why did I say that?" the Ravenclaw mused.

"It's the sleeping draught," Crowley said, remembering his stay in the hospital wing; "it makes you speak honestly, I think." He thought about this, and a wicked grin spread across his face: this could be fun. "So…you like my hair, huh? What else do you like about me?"

"Your eyes," Aziraphale said immediately. "So exquisitely golden. And your smile — not the one you're doing right now, but the one you get when you're doing something nice for someone."

"And when is _that_?" Crowley protested, and regretted it immediately.

"Stop asking me questions," Aziraphale complained, clearly embarrassed; "I'm vulnerable right now."

"Okay, okay," Crowley conceded; he wasn't sure he wanted to know the Ravenclaw's private thoughts anyhow — not under these conditions, at least. "Let's get you to bed," he said, just in time for an almighty yawn from Aziraphale.

"I'll just lie down on that sofa over there," Aziraphale said.

"No way — good night's sleep, remember? You're going in my bed."

"If you insist," the Ravenclaw said sleepily, too tired to put up any fuss.

Crowley allowed his friend to lean on him as he led him up the winding staircase.

"If only I had a time-turner," Aziraphale said dreamily, through several yawns. "Like that nice Hermione girl…I could turn back time and…go back to my tower before curfew."

"Wait, what?" Crowley gasped, stopping for a moment. "What do you mean, she has a time-turner?"

"Oh dear, I probably shouldn't have…said that," Aziraphale said guiltily, collapsing into a yawn.

"It's fine," Crowley assured him, but inside his mind was a whir. Just imagine the tricks he could play, the things he could do, if he got his hands on a time-turner…he'd put it from his mind for now, but certainly not for good.

Fred and George were chatting quietly when they entered the room; the curtains drawn around Lee Jordan's four-poster signaled that the fourth inhabitant was already asleep.

"What's this?" Fred asked as Crowley helped Aziraphale over to his bed. "Bringing your boyfriend to bed, are you?"

"We've been over this, he's _not_ —" Crowley began at the same time that Aziraphale said, "I don't have a boyfriend. Unfortunately."

"Oh hell," Crowley muttered, covering his face with his hands. "Ang — _Aziraphale_ , just get in the bed."

The Ravenclaw obliged, humming sleepily to himself. As he pulled off his shoes, slipped out of his cloak, and climbed in among the blankets, Crowley walked over to the twins and spoke quietly: "You don't mind, do you? Obviously I wouldn't bring anyone up here usually, it's just — look, it's a long story, but I sort of gave him something to help him sleep and he's going to conk out any second now, there's no way he can make it back to Ravenclaw Tower."

"It's fine, mate, so long as we don't have to, ahem, _hear_ anything," George said with a wink.

Crowley stared blankly for a long moment before the implication of George's words sunk in. "He—we—I don't—that's not—" he spluttered. He had never even _considered_ doing anything of that nature with Aziraphale, or anyone, ever. He glanced at his bed to make sure Aziraphale wasn't listening; thankfully, he appeared to be sound asleep. "I am not _interested_ in him, not in _that_ way."

"But you fancy him, don't you?" George asked, looking thoughtful. "Maybe you're like our brother, Charlie….what's the word he uses, Fred?"

"Asexual. And aromantic, but I don't think that part's you, eh, lover boy?" Fred elbowed Crowley playfully.

"Oh, yeah," Crowley said. "Anyway, you don't have to worry about 'hearing' anything. And it'll just be for tonight, I promise."

"Fine by me," George said.

"But only if you admit once and for all that you _do_ fancy him," Fred said.

"Seriously?" Crowley responded, peeved. He checked to make sure Aziraphale was still sleeping, then gave in: "Fine, yes I like him. But it doesn't matter, when he doesn't fancy _me_."

George snorted. "Are you…are you joking, mate?" he said in disbelief.

"He calls you _dear,_ " Fred chimed in.

"Oh, that's just him," Crowley said dismissively, "he calls everyone dear."

"He really doesn't," Fred said, grin widening.

"Certainly doesn't call _me_ dear," George added, affecting a hurt expression.

"Yeah, well that's because he doesn't like you," Crowley said, annoyed. "No offense."

"Ouch, Crowley," George said. "Really though, it is just you he calls dear."

"…Oh." Crowley felt his heart speed up at the realization; while Aziraphale occasionally called Anathema dear, and younger students dear, it was usually Crowley. Could it be?...

"Enough of this," he snapped, irritated by the twins' identical gleeful expressions. "I'm getting to bed." He slid out of his clothes with his back to the snickering twins, pulled on his pajamas, and climbed in next to Aziraphale, taking care to leave as much space between them as possible. He drew the curtains closed around the two of them, blocking out Fred and George's gloating faces and the candlelight.

Aziraphale stirred as Crowley readjusted the blankets in the darkness.

"Crowley," he murmured, in the sweetest voice Crowley had ever heard come from the Ravenclaw's mouth. His heart stopped as he felt warm fingers twine themselves in his hair and warm lips press against his cheek. "Good night, dear."

Crowley struggled to get a reply out. "Good night, Angel." 


	23. Chapter 23

"Oy, Anathema!"

Crowley caught the dark-haired girl just as she emerged from the dungeons that held the Slytherin common room and hurried towards the doors out of the castle. She turned.

"What, Crowley, I'm running late, I'm meant to be at the stadium early." Today was the first Quidditch match of the year, Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff, and the prefects of Slytherin and Ravenclaw were assigned to patrol the stands, to make sure that all stayed civil. It didn't help that the skies had decided to unleash a torrential storm, complete with thundering clouds and wicked winds — not ideal flying conditions, and tension was bound to be high.

"Yeah, but, listen," Crowley said, lowering his voice as groups of students passed them, "there's something I need your help with, today's my only chance and I can't do it myself."

"What," she said skeptically, "can't the grand trickster A. J. Crowley do?"

"Get into the girls' dormitory," he said. He couldn't, not while he was a guy — the staircase would turn into a chute if he tried and dump his sorry arse back into the common room. "And there's something in there I need — or rather, really want," he corrected. "Please?" He fixed her with what he hoped was a winningly pleading look, but Anathema just snorted.

"Let me guess, Fred and George dared you to knick some girl's panties."

"No!" he said, aghast. "It's something much better than that."

"Better than panties?" Anathema said sarcastically. "Okay, I'll bite. What is it?"

Crowley glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "A time-turner."

Anathema's eyes widened — not with surprise, as Crowley would have supposed, but with something like fear.

"That means today's the day," she muttered, more to herself than to Crowley. She began to walk up the grand staircase, and he hurried to follow after.

"Pulsifer!" she shouted down the stairs halfway up, making Crowley jump. He looked down to see Newt wandering out of the Great Hall. "Do me a favor and cover my shift at the Quidditch field, will you?"

"Er…sure," Newton said unenthusiastically.

"I'll be there in a bit, and I'll cover you next match," Anathema promised, and then up the stairs she was climbing once again, Crowley hurrying after her.

"So you are helping me, then?" he asked.

"Obviously," she replied tersely, not slowing her pace.

They made it to Gryffindor Tower, all the way up on the seventh floor (no one got an education at Hogwarts without developing some serious leg muscles).

"What's the word, you knaves?" Sir Cadogan bellowed as they approached.

"Doomsday," Crowley replied, and the frame swung open to admit them. He wondered for a brief moment at the password — the whacky knight usually picked things pertaining to chivalry, like _table round_ or _broadsword_ or _scurvy cur_ — but shrugged it off, figuring people back in the Middle Ages were fanatical about the end of the world. Revelations, and all that.

The common room was empty, as expected from a game day. Anathema paused to glance around at the place. She'd never entered it before — while Crowley's fellow Gryffindors tolerated the Ravenclaw he often brought in, they would boo or even hex a Slytherin out before she could get across the threshold.

"It's that Granger girl's, right?" Anathema asked, proceeding towards the foot of the girls' dormitory tower.

"Yeah," Crowley said, startled. "How did you know?"

Ever since Aziraphale had let slip that Hermione Granger was in possession of a time-turner, Crowley had been awaiting the opportunity to — what's a good word — _borrow_ it. He'd already brainstormed a dozen pranks that required a quick trip through time to work. Thus, every day he checked on the chain just visible around Granger's neck, waiting patiently for a day when he wouldn't see it there. Heading down to the Quidditch pitch this morning — he was as invested in the game as any other student, particularly because the twins were players and Lee Jordan the announcer — he'd caught a glimpse of the third-year's neck and saw…nothing. No glint of golden chain. Mind reeling, he'd decided he'd just have to show up a little late to the game.

But how the hell did _Anathema_ know about the time-turner?

"Agnes," she said simply. "I knew someone in the castle had one on them this year, and it didn't take me long to figure out who." Without further explanation, she made her way up the dormitory steps, leaving Crowley behind.

She returned a couple minutes later clutching a golden chain. "Here you are."

"Thanks!" Crowley said eagerly, taking the proffered necklace, and marveled at the hourglass twinkling from the end of the chain.

"I don't know what trouble you think you're going to get into with this, but you're wrong," Anathema said, her voice serious. "Time-turners are not a toy, Crowley. You know I'm all for your tricks, but using this for them would be going too far."

"Then why did you get it for me?" Crowley asked, bewildered.

"Agnes," Anathema said for the second time. "You're going to need it, desperately. And soon."

She made her way out of the Gryffindor common room. Crowley stood frozen a long moment, then raced after her.

"Now hang on!" he called, trying to catch up to her long strides. "You can't just say a thing like that and then…waltz away!"

"I have to get to the game," Anathema said, "and I don't have any more information than you about this. I only know you need to watch yourself." She stopped halfway down a staircase, causing Crowley to almost crash into her. "Okay, you know what? I want you to get through this unhurt, so listen carefully: 'When the Heavens wrythe above and the sandes of Tyme spill back, then two of the wingéd Houses sharl join handes — ' That's part of the prophecy Agnes made about this day."

"How do you know it's about _this_ day?" Crowley demanded, feeling queasy. He had no real idea what that gibberish had meant, but it sounded ominous. "How do you know it's about _me_? And why can't you tell me the whole thing?"

"If I tell you all of it, I might inadvertently influence what happens," Anathema said, "and I can't risk that, not in this case." She sighed. "I'm sorry, Crowley. I can't explain it all. And I can't be the one to help you. I'm not of one of 'the wingéd houses.'"

Crowley thought about this. "Well, hang on, neither am I…Gryffindor's crest is a _lion_ , it hasn't got _wings_."

"I know," Anathema admitted, "that puzzled me a long while too, since Ravenclaw's eagle is the only crest to _actually_ have wings. But think: _Gryffin_ dor. It's the only explanation I could come up with."

With that, she continued down the stairs. Crowley didn't follow this time. He stood alone, thoughts racing, time-turner dangling loosely from his hand.

Plans of pranks had tumbled to the back of his mind, replaced by Anathema's mysterious warnings. What to do?

Slipping the time-turner into the pocket of his robes, he found himself wandering the empty halls, listening to the roaring of wind through the windows. He had no direction in mind — but perhaps, he mused wryly, "fate" had already plotted out his destination for him anyway.

A couple minutes into his directionless walk, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, bringing that unmistakable sensation that hails someone standing just behind. He whirled around, heart pumping and hand reaching for the wand in his pocket.

It was just a student. One he didn't recall ever seeing before, which was odd — he looked to be at least in Crowley's year, if not older. No, perhaps younger after all — there was an uncanny agelessness to him that Crowley couldn't wrap his mind around, so he focused on the boy's clothing instead. His long black robes were plain, bearing none of the usual House markers. His complexion was pale as death, his skin stretched taut across his skull, his eyes deep and vast and staring eerily. Crowley felt himself shudder.

"Sorry," he said, "I thought you were…someone."

The other student smiled widely, a skull's lipless grin. "AH, don't mind me. I am no one at all." His voice was heavy, yet it seemed to echo more than the corridor required. Crowley thought of the cold, unmoving marble of tombstones.

Crowley realized he was gawking. "Right. Well," he said awkwardly, and then gave up on speaking. Too shaken to worry about being rude, he all but ran away from the tall, grinning figure.

It took at least five minutes for his heart to stop racing. Not long after, he spotted Aziraphale meandering down the opposite end of the corridor, nose in a book.

"Az! Az, am I glad to see you," Crowley called, remembering that the Ravenclaw had told him yesterday he'd not be attending the match — too much homework.

Aziraphale pulled his eyes from the text he was holding in front of his face, and broke into a smile. "Hallo, dear. Why aren't you at the game?"

"I was going to go, but…things happened," Crowley said distractedly. He wasn't looking at his friend anymore; he was staring out one of the passageway's windows.

It was difficult to make anything out in the riot of rain lashing against the glass and dark clouds obscuring the sun, but Crowley could have sworn he'd glimpsed someone dashing over the grounds…yes. His serpentine eyes, able to see much better than most humans eyes through darkness, focused on a small, soaked figure nearer to the Forest than the castle. He could just make out who it was. "What is Adam doing out there?" he murmured.

Aziraphale joined him at the window. "I say, I don't see anything…oh, God. Oh, oh God."

Crowley felt his heart sucked down into his gut as he realized that much of the gloom outside was not coming from anything so natural as storm clouds.

Five wraithlike figures swept across the earth, neither slow nor hurried in their pace, leaving desolated grass in their wake. As Aziraphale and Crowley watched in horrified silence, the dementors made their way towards the small boy who looked so lost on the rain-flooded plain.

"Oh God, what can we do, what can we do?" Aziraphale cried, wringing his hands.

"Nothing," Crowley said woodenly, shock draining him of emotion. "There's no time — "

Time. _Time_.

Crowley lunged at Aziraphale, dragging him down onto the stone corridor floor.

"What the hell, Crowley, let me _up_ — "

"No," Crowley said, struggling to hold his friend down. "I have a plan. But for it to work, we _cannot see what happens._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. The last Horseperson has made his appearance, and now we're hurtling fast towards the climax of this thing. Hope you all enjoy the ride.


	24. Chapter 24

" _We cannot see what happens."_

Aziraphale stopped trying to pry Crowley's arms away. For a moment, they both were still, the stone floor cold and unyielding beneath them and the sound of the wind howling against the windows above them filling the hall.

"A _plan_ , Crowley? Dear, I don't think there is anything we can do. Maybe…maybe he'll do that thing he did last time, the blast of magic…" When they'd be waylaid by dementors back at the beginning of the school year, Adam had exploded with accidental magic, forcing the hooded figures back. Aziraphale tried to get up again to see out the window, but only halfheartedly, and Crowley easily kept him pinned down. "That poor, poor boy…"

"I am not letting those bastards touch Adam," Crowley said. There was a steel in his voice Aziraphale had never heard there before. "I swear it. Look."

A shimmer of gold was thrust in front of Aziraphale's glasses: a sturdy chain, from which dangled an elegant hourglass. The Ravenclaw's eyes widened.

" _No_ ," he breathed. "Crowley, you didn't."

"I did," the Gryffindor replied shortly, "and a bloody good thing too, because it's how we're going to save Adam from becoming a soulless shell."

Suddenly Aziraphale understood his companion's plan. They could not watch what was happening at this very moment out on the grounds, because with any luck their future selves were out there, in the past, altering Adam's fate. Using a time-turner was a tricky business — catching a glimpse of your own self could spell doom for you or even your whole timeline. Aziraphale was surprised, actually, that Crowley seemed to have so firm a grasp on these rules of time travel.

"You can get off me now," he said haughtily. "I won't try to look out the window, all right?" Crowley climbed sheepishly off him. "So, what exactly are we going to do? Go back an hour, get a teacher to help us?"

"I…don't think that's a good idea. Since I really shouldn't have this time-turner, after all."

" _Crowley_!" Aziraphale cried, exasperated. "This is a matter of life and death!"

"Well…all right," Crowley said. "What about Lupin? He'd be the perfect one to help, since he's the one who taught us the patronus, and I bet he wouldn't rat me out. At least I hope not. Plus," he added, remembering, "I heard he wasn't feeling well and stayed in from the Quidditch match. That means we can go back in time just a little to find him, without going so far back that the castle is full of people again. Less people around, less chances of things getting tricky."

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale said distractedly, "Professor Lupin is an excellent choice." He was struggling to resist the urge to look out the window behind him. "Let's get out of this corridor, at the very least: I don't want one of us to slip and glance out that window." If they were to do that, well — there would be no going back in time. No saving Adam from the dementors' kiss. The present moment would be set in stone, with nothing they could do about it without risking the very fabric of their reality.

They helped each other up off the floor, taking care to keep their faces averted from the rain-lashed glass, and hurried from the passageway.

"All right, now, how far back should we go?" Aziraphale asked.

"I reckon as little time back as we can, so there's less of a risk of screwing things up," Crowley replied. "Thirty minutes should be enough to find Lupin and get to Adam in time to save him."

"Why can't we do a full hour," Aziraphale suggested slowly, thinking the idea over in his head as he spoke, "and just…stop Adam from going outside in the first place?"

"No!" Crowley said quickly. "We've already seen him out there, with the dementors, remember? We can't change that."

"You certainly are well-versed in this whole time travel business, my dear," Aziraphale remarked, "I really am impressed."

"Yeah, well, I grabbed a book from the library a couple weeks back to figure out how time-turners work, since I was planning on borrowing Granger's for pranks."

Aziraphale sighed. _Of course_ — the only time Crowley ever studied beyond what was needed to scrape out passing grades was when it would serve him in his mischief.

"Anyway. It's hard to be precise about a timespan less than an hour," Crowley explained as he threw the golden chain around his neck and then Aziraphale's, so that they were standing very close, bound as one by the time-turner. "To do one hour, you turn the hourglass once — so for half an hour, half a turn should do it. …Ready?"

Aziraphale felt his heart speed up. They were really about to travel through time. He glanced at his watch to check the time, then said, "Ready." He impulsively grabbed Crowley's hand, trying to steady his nerves.

Crowley turned the hourglass halfway with a flick of his wrist, and the passageway's stones, so solid looking a moment ago, melted. The candles in their sconces liquefied, flames flowing lava-like into strings of glowing yellow-orange that swirled dizzyingly around them. Aziraphale's stomach seemed to melt too; he felt his hand mold into Crowley's, felt his arms swell and stretch like wings, felt a scream bubble up in his molten belly, unutterable — and then, mercifully, all returned to normal. The stone walls stood solid and unmovable once again, the candles glowing placidly like nothing had happened. Aziraphale steadied himself. Checked his watch again.

"Fugger," he gasped, so distraught he mixed _fuck_ with _bugger_. "Crowley, we need to run! Now!"

He took off down the hall, dragging the Gryffindor behind him—not towards Lupin's office, but towards the nearest staircase that led downwards. They were all the way up on the fourth floor, but they needed to get outside _right now_.

"Aziraphale, what — " Crowley panted from behind him.

"Eight minutes, Crowley," Aziraphale called back, fighting to keep the panic that was blossoming in his chest from taking over. "We only went back eight minutes."

"Fuck," Crowley said, and picked up his pace to match his friend's.

Trying to go further back now could lead to disastrous consequences, so there was nothing to it but to run. They had no time to seek out Lupin. No time to come up with a sturdier plan, no time to do anything but run to Adam, run and hope they made it to him before the dementors did.

Why was this bloody castle so _huge_?

Why was that bloody boy out in the storm, and not at the Quidditch pitch with everyone else, in the first place?

Why was saving him up to _them?_

Down two flights they went, practically gliding down the steps — then, _damn it all_ , they found the staircases had decided to shift on them, forcing them to sprint down several corridors searching for the next staircase leading down.

They wasted almost a whole precious minute seeking the stairs, but found them at last. Started the descent and — "shit!" came a cry from behind Aziraphale. He turned.

Crowley's foot had caught in one of Hogwarts' many trick steps and was sunk down to his thigh; he'd tripped backwards to sit awkwardly on the step just above it.

Aziraphale had no breath to spare for any words, so he simply grasped Crowley under the armpits and pulled — with a small sucking sound, the trick step let its hostage go.

Down the last two flights, out the front doors of the castle and into the storm.

Aziraphale cast a hurried _impervius_ charm to keep the rain off his glasses, and stared into the downpour. The rain fell like a wall, and he couldn't see anything from this distance. He kept running across the water-logged grass, lungs burning and water flooding into his shoes, Crowley slogging along at his side.

Soon they were about halfway between the castle and the Forbidden Forest — based on how far they had traveled more than anything Aziraphale could actually see, though he could make out the vague outline of trees a long ways off through the sheet of rain. Not much further now, he prayed; his legs were on the brink of giving out beneath him.

A shudder down his spine that had nothing to do with the rain seeping down his neckline alerted him to the fact that there was, indeed, not much further to go. A heavy frozenness flooded his gut and spread along his limbs as if injected into his veins, a chill far colder than the wind biting at his face. The world, already dim due to the clouds consuming the sun, grew several shades darker.

A keening cry for help bit through the ice that seemed to form around his feet and slow his steps: Adam was near. Aziraphale sped up as well as he could, but Crowley outpaced him, vanishing into the rain.

When he reached them both, he stopped running at last and almost fell over. His body was exhausted and his mind was bogged down by the power of the approaching dementors. Any hope he'd had of combatting them was fast slipping away like the rain from his glasses.

"Angel, we need to produce patronuses, both of us," Crowley wheezed, as Adam trembled behind him.

"I don't…think I…can," Aziraphale said between gasping breaths.

"We have to," Crowley said determinedly, and reached into his robes, presumably for his wand. Aziraphale's heart twisted at the look of shock that spasmed across his friend's face. "My wand," Crowley said woodenly. "I don't have it."

The world around them seemed to freeze over, though the rain still fell heavily. Crowley's and Aziraphale's ragged gasps, Adam's whimpers, and the wailing wind amplified in Aziraphale's ears — and then dulled. All was muted as one sound broke through the icy scene and conquered all others: harsh, sucking, rattling breath.

The dementors were near enough now to see even through the deluge. The nearest was only thirty feet away, the four others not far behind.

Visions were flooding his skull, images and sensations and fear. He was tumbling from a cliff — no, he was being shoved into a bathroom stall, curly head forced towards the water gleaming in the toilet bowl — no again, he was at home, watching envy and hatred flash across his mother's face, again and again and again — "Aziraphale! _Please_."

Crowley was on his knees, as if the memories the dementors were forcing him to relive were too much to take standing. Even in the darkness, those golden eyes flashed like flame.

"Az, you — you _need_ to — patronus…"

Aziraphale found he was clutching his wand. Through the miasma of memory, he raised it towards the looming dementors.

"Ex-expecto…" he said, voice weak. "Ex _pec_ to…" No, wait, he needed a happy thought first. A happy thought, happy thought…his mind's eye presented him with a grave, bearing his grandfather's name, then a book with atrocious insults scrawled across his favorite verses of Tennyson, then a slice of pain in his forearm, the memory of a broken bone long since healed.

He crumpled into the grass. He didn't even feel the mud seep into his robes, brain too overloaded by pain.

"Why won't he cast it?" came Adam's voice, weak an plaintive, behind him.

"He needs a happy thought," Crowley said, voice drenched in despair.

"Then…why don't you _make_ one for him?" Adam asked.

Crowley did not answer, and Aziraphale did not move. Vaguely, through the haze his mind had become, he saw Adam step tentatively forward until he was three steps in front of the two older students, between them and the dementors.

Adam squared his shoulders. Greenish-gold light began to crackle around his small form, sizzling in the rain.

_Boom_.

A wave of energy radiated outward, bowling into the dementors. This burst was weaker than the one Adam had produced back among the Hippogriffs in September, but strong enough to cause the nearest three of the five dementors to tumble backwards. These three peeled away from the hoard, and vanished back into the rain.

The boy collapsed, lifeless. Aziraphale hardly had the focus necessary to feel worry for the child, too wrapped up in his own shroud of despairing thoughts.

And two dementors were still approaching, inexorable as death.

"Make one for him…" Crowley murmured to his right side, but he hardly heard it; all was muted but for the death rattle rolling ever nearer. "Happy thought…"

A hand clasped Aziraphale's, cold as anything else in the dreary hellscape his world had become, but soft and solid and _comforting_ in the midst of misery.

"Angel." Crowley's eyes gazed firmly into his own, blazing with an amber flame that battled against the dementors' ice even as Aziraphale's own soul did. "I have an idea for a happy thought, but I'm not sure…do you _like_ me, Aziraphale?"

The surprise of the question broke through the awful memories like nothing else could. Did he _like_ Crowley? As in, _like_ like? That was a question for schoolchildren, nervous and excited, exchanging silly little notes in class, not for a storm-swept plain with doom fast advancing. Yet he found his mouth open to answer anyway: "Yes."

"And if I were to kiss you, would you be glad?" Crowley asked, a little dazedly, clearly fighting through a fog of despair.

Aziraphale nodded, wordless. He felt something stir in his gut that unsettled the deep cold of the dementors.

Crowley took Aziraphale's face in his hands and planted their lips together: like petals they folded together, sloppy and rain-wet but soft and _right_.

After a couple seconds, Aziraphale pulled away: he had his happy thought, and the dementors were only three feet away.

_Crowley likes me,_ he thought, shoving layers of misery over to the edges of his brain. _Crowley likes me, Crowley kissed me, the best friend I ever had might well kiss me again, if we get through this._

" _Expecto Patronum_!" he cried, and silver light beamed from the tip of his wand.

It was incorporeal, nothing more than a wall of light bursting through the sheet of rain to form a glowing shield between them and the dementors. But it was enough. The dementors were forced back and retreated. They hovered a moment at a distance, but as the light held, they moved further and further back into the storm, until they had faded into a memory, a bad dream just like the ones they so powerfully conjured up.

The world released its breath; sound became loud again and the unnatural darkness lifted from the air and from Aziraphale's soul. Abruptly, it was just a normal stormy day again, dreary and dim and cold, but bliss compared to the dementors' thrall.

Aziraphale fell into the sopping grass beside Crowley, who was shaking and looked ready to pass out. He looked at Aziraphale and offered a faint smile.

"You did it, Angel."

" _We_ did it," Aziraphale corrected him, and leaned forward to press a second kiss to his friend's lips, feeling a little more ice chip away from his heart as he did so.

"Got to check on Adam," Crowley groaned as he struggled to sit up. He half crawled over to where the first-year lay, and placed his fingers around Adam's wrist.

"He seems okay," he said.

"Good," Aziraphale replied. Now all that remained was to somehow get all three of them, in their dismal shape, back to the castle — oh, and they'd have to return the time-turner to Hermione at some point. That would _not_ be fun, he thought with a groan, recollecting how scary the third-year girl could be when angry. But at least it wouldn't be so bad as facing dementors. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *frequently denounces the romance tropes that plague our culture's fiction* *writes lengthy story that reaches its climax when the main two ~Love Interests~ kiss* I'll just put myself over here on this trash pile
> 
> Only one more chapter to go!! Hopefully that climax was as exciting as I tried to make it be!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE END

"What's so funny?" Crowley demanded as Aziraphale giggled uncontrollably. As soon as he'd entered the corridor they'd agreed to meet in, Aziraphale had dissolved into laughter.

"It's — oh my dear — look up!" the Ravenclaw got out between chortles.

Perplexed, Crowley complied, and spotted what had Aziraphale so tickled: a sprig of mistletoe, tied up in a red ribbon, hovered a foot above his head. Well, that explained why various students had seemed to ogle the space just above him as he'd made his way through the castle. Heaving a theatrical sigh, he turned around in the corridor.

As expected, three heads popped out from around the corner. One sported dark dreadlocks, while the other two freckled faces were crowned in vivid red hair. All three bore Cheshire grins.

"Gotcha!" Lee Jordan crowed, as the mischief-makers stepped fully into the hallway. "You know what you've got to do now!"

"Oh _no_ ," Crowley said drily, "snog my own boyfriend? Anything but _that._ " As he spoke, Aziraphale leaned forward and offered him a swift, soft peck on the lips. Charm broken, the sprig of mistletoe tumbled from midair and bounced off Crowley's head and onto the floor.

It had been early November when they'd faced dementors together and shared a first kiss, hearts racing more with sheer terror than excitement. Now December had arrived, yet every kiss still filled Crowley like a balloon, sending a small magic shock from his lips into his heart.

This one thought of the dementors brought more memories of that night into Crowley's mind. He allowed his boyfriend to take him by the hand and lead him along to the Entrance Hall without paying much attention. Even when Lee suddenly exclaimed, "Shit, I forgot my Zonko's money!" and he and the twins peeled away to collect it from Gryffindor Tower, Crowley hardly noticed them go, sunk into reverie as he was.

In his memory, Crowley and Aziraphale were practically dragging a semi-conscious Adam across the flooded grounds when they were intercepted by a throng of students coming in from the Quidditch field.

_The match can't be over already_ , Crowley thought just as Dumbledore's pointed purple hat appeared in the midst of the students and the driving rain. Crowley's stomach jolted as his eyes alighted on the inert figure of Harry Potter being levitated in front of the headmaster, whose normally twinkling eyes now flashed with a scarcely suppressed fury. What had happened? Had the slender seeker been flung off his broom by the wind?

Professor McGonagall was right at Dumbledore's side, but she stepped away from him to hurry towards Crowley, Aziraphale, and the hardly-upright eleven-year-old they were urging along.

"Dementors?" she asked shortly, voice raised to combat the howling wind. Aziraphale and Crowley nodded mutely. "They came to the Quidditch pitch as well," she said. That explained poor Potter, then — he must have passed out in midair from the dementors' presence. "Wood, Johnson, come help with this boy," McGonagall ordered two of the Quidditch players hovering over Potter's unmoving form.

Wood and Angelina carried the tiny first-year between them, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley to slog along behind them. When they made it back to the castle, they followed Dumbledore in his swift march to the Hospital Wing — on the way, Crowley found his AWOL wand beside the trick step he'd stumbled into on his and Aziraphale's mad dash to the grounds — and sank down onto a bed beside Adam.

Anathema and Newton dashed into the Wing, soaked and panting. They made their way to the bed where Adam was tucked into the blankets and Crowley and Aziraphale sat shivering.

"So," Anathema said to Crowley as way of greeting, "Is he a good kisser?"

Crowley blinked, wondering how the hell Anathema knew about the kiss until he recalled the prophecy she had half-revealed to him earlier: the half she hadn't told him must mention his and Aziraphale's desperate kiss. He blushed — the thought that some long-gone witch named Nutter had seen him snogging his friend with her Inner Eye was not exactly a comfortable one. But he replied nonchalantly.

"Eh, he's all right," he said. "Better than kissing a dementor, at any rate."

Aziraphale sputtered.

Just then Madame Pomfrey zoomed in to shoo all extraneous students out of the Wing, including Anathema and Newt. As Anathema turned to leave, Crowley thrust the time turner at her.

"Can you put it back?" he asked her. She nodded curtly and left the room in a swish of black hair.

The harried nurse bustled around Potter for several minutes before she could look Adam over. Soon after, she was thrusting huge mugs of hot chocolate at all three of them. Crowley felt the dregs of his depleted spirit stir at the first warm sip.

"What the bloody hell were you doing out there, anyway?" he asked Adam, who was sitting up in bed and sipping gratefully at his cocoa.

Adam did not reply for a moment, and then said in a weak voice, "Dog Junior."

"What?" Aziraphale asked, baffled, speaking for the first time since they'd left the site of the dementors.

"Dog Junior. He's jus' like my Dog at home, but bigger an' real good at tricks and _here_ , livin' on the grounds." Crowley recalled the time Adam had told him about the great black dog that frequented the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "I thought he might be scared out in the storm, so I went to find him. To bring 'im to the castle."

"You almost got us killed — _worse_ than killed — for a _dog_ ," Aziraphale said disbelievingly. Crowley placed his hand over his friend's where it had curled into a fist on the blankets. He gave the Ravenclaw a meaningful look: now was not the time to agitate the already shaken first-year.

But Adam's lower lip had begun to tremble. "Do you think he's okay?" he sniffed. "Do you think…do you think the dementors got him?"

"Nah Adam, of course not," Crowley interjected quickly. "He's a smart dog, he'll know to keep out of the dementors' way."

"He's probably found somewhere nice and warm to stay," Aziraphale joined in, to Crowley's relief, "safe out of the storm."

The whole thing blew over much more quickly than Crowley expected. That following Monday they were back in class, their biggest worry their ever-growing workload once again. He felt changed in many ways — but in other ways, the same as he'd always been.

His relationship with Aziraphale went along similar lines — much changed from what it had been, and yet not much different after all. The frequent snogging sessions in unused classrooms was the largest modification to their relationship, and their hand-holding was no longer furtive.

Crowley was pulled from his recollecting by raised voices as he and Aziraphale passed the side corridor leading to the cellar where the Hufflepuff common room was tucked away.

"I swear, if you bring up the prophecy one more time — !" a familiar voice was shouting. "I like you for _you_ , you clueless gnome!"

Crowley and Aziraphale sped down the corridor to find, as expected, Anathema towering over an alarmed Newt. Well, not _towering_ — she and the Hufflepuff were almost the same exact height — but when Anathema Device was angry, she certainly gave off an air of _towering._

"So will you agree," she demanded, voice lower than it had been but ire still obvious, "to go as a date, or not?"

Newton caught sight of Aziraphale and Crowley behind Anathema's back. His beseeching eyes grabbed onto Crowley's.

"Just say yes, mate," Crowley said. "She _likes_ you."

"Y-yes," Newt said, voice cracking. Then, a bit stronger, "I _will_ go on a date with you."

"Excellent," Aziraphale said, clapping his hands together. "A double date."

"Who says you and your boy toy are invited, Anchell?" Anathema asked, turning to face them, but a grin glimmered along her lips.

"I've always wanted to go on a double date," Aziraphale said happily, ignoring the Slytherin's words.

"You have?" Crowley asked, surprised.

"They always sound so fun in books."

"They do?" But Crowley was pleased about this turn of events as well.

The walk to Hogsmeade was a merry one, for the dreary downpours of November had transformed into powdery snowfall and sheaths of frost across the grass. The four of them walked, nearly skipped, hand-in-hand. The other students all around them were equally cheerful, this being the last Hogsmeade trip of the term — it signaled only a week of classes to go, and then would come the much needed break of the Winter Holidays.

After visiting various shops — including Madam Puddifoot's to purchase some of the tea Aziraphale loved so well, where they were waylaid by a middle-aged witch whose arms clinked with bangles to rival Professor Trelawney's and who proclaimed herself as Madame Tracy, promising them a "séance they would never forget" if they followed her upstairs; they only managed to escape her after accepting a handful of calling cards — they slipped with some relief into the warm, lively atmosphere of the Three Broomsticks.

The four fifth-years settled into a booth near two wizards who were clearly well beyond tipsy at this point: several empty bottles of firewhisky littered the table between them, along with ink bottles and sheets of parchment covered in two sets of handwriting.

Crowley observed these two gentlemen as his friends set about hailing Madam Rosmerta for some Butterbeer. The one wizard, who bore tousled waves of dark hair, was dressed in robes unlike any Crowley had ever seen before: they were of black leather, perhaps dragon's hide, and Crowley fancied that if James Bond were a wizard, he would wear much the same thing.

The other man — a good bit older than his companion, giving off an air of worldly wisdom and decked in all white from his robes to his hat — was speaking: "…So the angel, absorbed in this new book he's obtained, shuts the door in the demon's face, leaving the poor demon quite put out!" He chuckled at this related misfortune, which struck Crowley as a little insensitive.

"This angel and this demon," said the one in black, speaking slowly in the way drunk people do when they don't want to sound drunk, "they sound like a regular married couple to me."

"Well they more or less are," his white-clad colleague agreed amiably, "but we never state it outright. We leave it to rather blaring subtext for the readers to piece together. It's more of a thrill that way."

Leather-robes took a moment to reply, mulling this over. "Why is that?"

The old man scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Why…I don't know," he responded, bewildered as only someone four or more drinks in can be.

Crowley found himself disappointed by this conversation: he had been entertaining the notion that these wizards were secret agents, aurors perhaps, but it seemed they were just writers. He turned his attention elsewhere.

Madam Rosmerta set down four foaming tankards of Butterbeer. Luckily, Anathema did not flirt with the landlady this time, even though the older woman offered her an exaggerated wink.

As one, they all lifted their mugs and took a large swig, filling their stomachs with warming foam.

Newton smacked his lips contentedly. "There's nothing a hot drink can't cure." Crowley thought about how the dementors' chill could be thawed off with cocoa and nodded in agreement.

The group's conversation meandered from schoolwork — "Only one week left, thank Merlin!" — to friendly teasing and discussions of the coming break.

"So," Newt asked at one point, "what are you lot going to do over the Winter Holidays?"

"Study," Aziraphale answered promptly.

" _And_ watch James Bond films with me," Crowley reminded the Ravenclaw — he was staying with the Anchell family for the holidays, as usual.

"What? No!" Aziraphale protested.

"All of them," Crowley insisted. "You promised, remember?"

"Oh God, did I really?" Aziraphale sighed.

"You did."

"Oh, all right." He nursed his Butterbeer, plump lips curved into a pout that did strange things to Crowley's pulse. "But I'm studying _while_ we watch them."

"What about you, Anathema?" Crowley asked the witch across from him.

"I'll be getting out my theodolite to check on my village's ley lines," she answered. "It's good to map them out every few years, just in case they've shifted."

Sitting in the warmth and bustle of the Three Broomsticks, enveloped in a blanket laughter and chatter from all sides, holding Aziraphale's — his _boyfriend's!_ —hand, Crowley smiled. This is right where he wanted to be.

The next week passed quickly enough. Professors piled their fifth-year students' arms high with assignments for the holidays and sent them homeward on board the Hogwarts express.

After Anathema and Newton had finished their prefect duties patrolling the train, they joined Aziraphale and Crowley in an otherwise empty compartment.

Anathema got out her hand-held wireless, and Newton fiddled with the dial as the others lounged about, snacking on cauldron cakes and licorice wands they'd bought from the trolley witch.

The static emanating from the speakers dissolved itself into a fanfare of instruments, somewhat grainy, and then a woman's voice singing out, clear and sweet:

" _When true lovers meet in Mayfair,_  
so the legends tell,  
Songbirds sing,  
Winter turns to spring…"

"Oh, I know this one!" Aziraphale cried delightedly, rising from his sweet-induced stupor cuddled up next to Crowley. "Come along, dear boy, let's dance!"

"We found a muggle channel again?" Crowley asked as he allowed his boyfriend to pull him from the seat.

Crowley was not one for dancing, and it quickly became evident that Aziraphale was no master dancer, either. And the rocking of the train beneath their feet did nothing to help their balance, besides. But a fierce kind of contentment welled up in Crowley's stomach, and he knew Aziraphale was feeling the same way.

" _That certain night, the night we met_  
There was magic abroad in the air  
There were angels dining at the Ritz  
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."

Crowley nuzzled into Aziraphale's shoulder as they swayed to the music. Beside them, Anathema swept Newt up into a dance.

"This is how it was always meant to be," Crowley found himself murmuring.

"I know, my dear," Aziraphale murmured back.

Everything was so perfect. And yet…something was missing…

"Attack, men!"

The compartment door slammed open, revealing no one else but Adam Young, accompanied by that forever-disheveled Hufflepuff, Brian.

" _And_ women!" came a voice from overhead — Crowley whipped his head back to see the freckled face of Pepper, another of Adam's friends, peering out from the luggage rack.

" _And…_ others!" cried Wensleydale, as their round, bespectacled face appeared from the luggage rack on the other side.

Suddenly, the four fifth-years found themselves in a flurry of cushions and rolled up parchment.

"We have you surrounded from above and below!" Adam crowed. "Do you yield, foul fiends?"

"Never!" Anathema cried, picking up one of the cushions and hurling it at the tiny boy.

Ah, Crowley thought, letting out a wild laugh. _This_ is what had been missing — perfect chaos.

His boyfriend — his best friend— his _Angel_ at his side, Crowley gathered up fallen parchment balls and prepared for combat against these tiny foes.

This was a battle he and Aziraphale would win, as they would win any battle the world cared to throw their way. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This is it. This is really it -- this fic has come to its close. I'm sort of a bit in shock? Time for the corny author's farewell that you expect at the end of long fics, I suppose.
> 
> If you've gotten this far, if you've read this whole thing, thank you so, so much. Obviously, I wouldn't have finished this story if not for the encouragement of you folks. If you've left any comments, I've greatly appreciated every single one. If you've left kudos, I'm super grateful for that too. If you've just been along for this wild more-than-two-year-long ride, you are fabulous.
> 
> Feel free to message me any time at averygayaceinspace.tumblr.com if you want to chat about this fic, about Good Omens in general, or about anything at all really! I'll probably be posting some follow-up "bonus" material on my blog in the next week or two, so you can stay tuned for that (I'll tag it all #ineffable incantations so you can search that tag on my blog to find it easily). That'll include stuff like fun facts about the characters that never made it into the fic, what each characters' wand is, what Az and Crow's patronuses would have been if they'd produced a corporeal one, etc.
> 
> So yep, this is the end of the road! I may post some stand-alone fics in this same universe at a later date, we'll see! But for now, I bid you all farewell, and hope that this final chapter, stuffed with cameos and GO references as it was, was to your satisfaction.
> 
> As Crowley would say, Ciao!


End file.
